_Aur._ I do; for he is yet more fool than I can speak him. I never sent him on a message, but he runs first to that glass, to practise how he may become his errand. Speak, is this a lie, sirrah? _Ben._ I confess, I have some kindness for the mirror. _Aur._ The mirror! there's a touch of his poetry too; he could not call it a glass. Then the rogue has the impudence to make sonnets, as he calls them; and, which is greater impudence, he sings them too; there's not a street in all Rome which he does not nightly disquiet with his villanous serenade: with that guitar there, the younger brother of a cittern, he frights away the watch; and for his violin, it squeaks so lewdly, that Sir Tibert[1] in the gutter mistakes him for his mistress. 'Tis a mere cat-call. _Cam._ Is this true, Benito? _Ben._ to _Cam._ [_Aside._] My master, sir, may say his pleasure; I divert myself sometimes with hearing him. Alas, good gentleman, 'tis not given to all persons to penetrate into men's parts and qualities; but I look on you, sir, as a man of judgment, and therefore you shall hear me play and sing. [_He takes up the guitar, and begins._ _Aur._ Why, you invincible sot you, will nothing mend you? Lay it down, or-- _Ben._ to _Cam._ Do ye see, sir, this enemy to the muses? he will not let me hold forth to you. [_Lays down the guitar._] O envy and ignorance, whither will you!--But, gad, before I'll suffer my parts to be kept in obscurity-- _Aur_, What will you do, rascal? _Ben._ I'll take up the guitar, and suffer heroically. [_He plays,_ AUR. _kicks._ _Aur._ What? do you mutiny? _Ben._ Ay, do, kick till your toes ache; I'll be baffled in my music by ne'er a foot in Christendom. _Aur._ I'll put you out of your tune, with a vengeance to you. [_As_ AURELIAN _kicks harder,_ BENITO _sings faster, and sometimes cries out._ _Cam._ holding _Aur._ Nay, then, 'tis time to stickle[2]. Hold, Aurelian, pr'ythee spare Benito, you know we have occasion for him. _Aur._ I think that was well kicked. _Ben._ And I think that was well sung too. _Cam._ Enough, Aurelian. _Ben._ No, sir; let him proceed to discourage virtue and see what will come on it. _Cam._ Now to our business. But we must first instruct Benito. _Aur._ Be ruled by me, and do not trust him. I prophesy he'll spoil the whole affair; he has a worm in his head as long as a conger, a brain so barren of all sense, and yet so fruitful of foolish plots, that if he does not all things his own way, yet at least he'll ever be mingling his designs with yours, and go halves with you; so that, what with his ignorance, what with his plotting, he'll be sure to ruin you with an intention to serve you. For my part, I had turned him off long since, but that my wise father commanded the contrary.