_Lat._ You'd make one believe fine things, that would but hearken to you; but this lady might soon have found you out. _Y. Book._ Some acquaintance I have got, however; this is making love, scholar, and at the best rate too. _Lat._ To speak truth, I'm hardly come to myself yet; your great supper lies on my stomach still. I defy Pontack[52] to have prepared a better o' the sudden. Your enchanted castles, where strangers found strange tables strangely furnished with strange cates, were but sixpenny ordinaries to the fifth barge; you were an excellent man to write romances, for having feasts and battles at command, your Quixote in a trice would over-run the world; revelling and skirmishing cost you nothing; then you vary your scene with so much ease, and shift from court to camp with such facility-- _Y. Book._ I love thus to outvie a newsmonger; and as soon as I perceive a fellow thinks his story will surprise, I choke him with a stranger, and stop his mouth with an extempore wonder. Did'st thou but know what a pleasure 'tis to cram their own news down their throats again! _Lat._ 'Tis fine, but may prove dangerous sport, and may involve us in a peck of troubles. Prithee, Tom, consider that I am of quality to be kicked or caned by this l---- _Y. Book._ Hush, hush, call it not lying; as for my waging war, it is but just I snatch and steal from fortune that fame which she denies me opportunity to deserve. My father has cramped me in a college, while all the world has been in action. Then as to my lying to my mistress, 'tis but what all the lovers upon earth do. Call it not then by that coarse name, a lie. 'Tis wit, 'tis fable, allegory, fiction, hyperbole--or be it what you call it, the world's made up almost of nothing else. What are all the grave faces you meet in public? mere silent lies, dark solemn fronts, by which they would disguise vain empty silly noddles. But after all, to be serious, since I am resolved honestly to love, I don't care how artfully I obtain the woman I pitch upon; besides, did you ever know any of them acknowledge they loved as soon as they loved? No, they'll let a man dwell upon his knees--whom they languish to receive into their arms. They're no fair enemy. Therefore 'tis but just that-- We use all arts the fair to undermine, And learn with gallantry to hide design. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I.--PENELOPE'S _Lodgings, Covent Garden._ _Enter_ OLD BOOKWIT, PENELOPE, _and_ LETTICE. _Old Book._ Mistress Penelope, I have your father's leave to wait upon you, madam, and talk to you this morning; nay, to talk to you of marriage. _Pen._ To talk to me of marriage, sir? _O. Book._ Yes, madam, in behalf of my son, Tom Bookwit. _Pen._ Nay, there may perhaps be something said to that. [_Aside._