Bruno. Think you the Prince's present humour lasting? Felice. Ay, while the relish smacks. This rustication Is pleasant to him now, a dainty tasting Of heather honey; lacking domination O'er appetite, he'll gorge and surfeit soon On country pleasures; sick of nature's sweet, Of making hay, and gazing on the moon, Of hearing kine low, wool-producers bleat, Cocks crow, crows caw, doves coo, and goslings gabble, Of all their junketing and rural sport, Their ales, mays, harvests, songs and silly babble, He'll hasten to the spiced and pickled court. With all due reverence for mighty Pan, Here's one who wishes we might leave to-morrow; For, by my beard, I'll soon lose all the man Hushing my wit, and suckling of that sorrow. Bruno. I fear it much; mine is at least asleep: Plague on these blowsy girls and brown-faced knaves, Who rake their brains and set our jests asteep, Distilling that which no refining craves, Concentrating wit's subtle, quaint, quintessence. In courtly spheres fat dullards feed fine lights; But brilliant stars wane swiftly from their crescence When doomed to shine among chaotic wights: Too much damp fuel quells the strongest fire; We perish of this plethora of faggots. Felice. Respect has wrought a transformation dire: We are dead dogs, these creatures are our maggots. We, air imperial, burn in this gas, Which once illumined us, its atmosphere; I am a beast of burden; you, an ass-- Slaves, where before our lash was held in fear. By heaven, our pates the jingling cap befits! We are the clowns; the country louts, the wits. Bruno. Here comes knave Scipio, the Prince's friend, Stuck like a wild-flower in his love-lock's shade, Replacing us, poor withered hothouse blooms. We'll dust his livery with wordy strokes, And in his own outspoken chaff deride him. Enter Scipio.