_Chi._ One hour raving, Another smiling, not a word the third hour, I tell thee _Stremon_ h'as a stirring soul, What ever it attempts or labours at Would wear out twenty bodies in another. _Fool._ I'le keep it out of me, for mine's but Buckram, He would bownce that out in two hours. _Chi._ Then he talks The strangest and the maddest stuff from reason, Or any thing ye offer; stand thou there, I'le show thee how he is, for I'le play _Memnon_ The strangest General that ere thou heardst of, _Stremon_. _Stre._ My Lord. _Chi._ Go presently and find me A black Horse with a blew tail; bid the blank Cornet Charge through the Sea, and sink the Navy: softly, Our souls are things not to be waken'd in us With larums, and loud bawlings, for in _Elyzium_ Stilness and quietness, and sweetness, Sirra, I will have, for it much concerns mine honour, Such a strong reputation for my welcome As all the world shall say: for in the forefront So many on white Unicorns, next them My Gentlemen, my Cavaliers and Captains, Ten deep and trapt with Tenter-hooks to take hold Of all occasions: for Friday cannot fish out The end I aim at; tell me of _Diocles_, And what he dares do? dare he meet me naked? Thunder in this hand? in his left--Fool-- _Fool._ Yes, Sir. _Chi._ Fool, I would have thee fly i'th' Air, fly swiftly To that place where the Sun sets, there deliver. _Fool._ Deliver? what, Sir? _Chi._ This Sir, this ye slave, Sir, [_All laugh._ Death ye rude Rogues, ye Scarabe's. _Fool._ Hold for Heav'ns sake, Lieutenant, sweet Lieutenant. _Chi._ I have done, Sir. _Boy._ You have wrung his neck off. _Chi._ No Boy, 'tis the nature Of this strange passion when't hits to hale people Along by th' hair, to kick 'em, break their heads. _Fool._ Do ye call this Acting, was your part to beat me? _Chi._ Yes, I must act all that he does. _Fool._ Plague act ye, I'le act no more. _Stre._ 'Tis but to shew man. _Fool._ Then man He should have shew'd it only, and not done it, I am sure he beat me beyond Action, Gouts o' your heavy fist. _Chi._ I'le have thee to him, Thou hast a fine wit, fine fool, and canst play rarely. He'l hug thee, Boy, and stroke thee. _Fool._ I'le to the stocks first, E're I be strok't thus. _Strem._ But how came he, _Chilax_? _Chi._ I know not that. _Strem._ I'le to him. _Chi._ He loves thee well, And much delights to hear thee sing; much taken He has been with thy battel songs. _Stre._ If Musick Can find his madness; I'le so fiddle him, That out it shall by th' shoulders. _Chi._ My fine Fidler, He'l firk you and ye take not heed too: 'twill be rare sport To see his own trade triumph over him; His Lute lac'd to his head, for creeping hedges; For mony there's none stirring; try good _Stremon_ Now what your silver sound can do; our voices Are but vain Echoes.