_Jaco._ I warrant you, give him but fair rich clothes, He can be ta'en, reputed anything. Apparel's grown a god, and goes[467] more neat; Makes men of rags, which straight he bears aloft, Like patch'd-up scarecrows to affright the rout Of the idolatrous vulgar that worship images, Stand awed and bare-scalp'd at the gloss of silks, Which, like the glorious A-jax[468] of Lincoln's-Inn (Survey'd with wonder by me when I lay Factor in London), laps up naught but filth 20 And excrements, that bear the shape of men, Whose inside every daw[469] would peck and tear, But that vain scarecrow clothes entreats forbear. _Fra._ You would have me take upon me, Albano, A valiant gallant Venetian burgomasco. Well my beard, my feather, short sword, and my oath, Shall do't, fear not. What! I know a number, By the sole warrant of a lappy beard, A rain-beat plume, and a good chop-filling oath, With an odd French shrug, and "by the Lord," or so, 30 Ha' leapt into sweet captain with such ease As you would--Fear't not. I'll gage my heart I'll do't. How sits my hat? Ha! Jack, doth my feather wag? _Jaco._ Methinks now, in the common sense of fashion, Thou shouldst grow proud, and like a fore-horse view, None but beforehand gallants; as for sides, Study a faint salute, give a strange eye; And those that rank in equal file with thee, But as to those in rearward, O be blind! The world wants eyes--it[470] cannot see behind. 40 _Fra._ Where is the strumpet? Where's the hot-vein'd French? Lives not Albano? Hath Celia so forgot Albano's love, that she must forthwith wed A runabout, a skipping Frenchman? _Jaco._ Now you must grow in heat, and stut. _Fra._ An odd phantasma--a beggar--a sir--a who, who, who--What You Will--a straggling go-go-go-gunds--f-f-f-f-fut---- _And._ Passing like him--passing like him. O 'twill strike all dead! 50 _Ran._ I am ravished! 'Twill be peerless exquisite Let him go out instantly! _Jaco._ O, not till twilight; meantime I'll prop up The tottering rumour of Albano's scape, And safe arrival; it begins to spread. If this plot live, Frenchman, thy hopes are dead. [_Exeunt._ _Bid._ And if it live, strike off this little head. [_Exit._ [467] Ed. 1. "does." [468] _A jakes._ The joke (originated by Sir John Harrington) is very common. Concerning the jakes of Lincoln's Inn, see the droll, though not very delicate, story in Gayton's _Festivous Notes on Don Quixote_, 1654, p. 74. [469] Old eds. "day" (which Dilke retains!). [470] Ed. 2. "and." SCENE II. _A Public Place._ _Enter_ ALBANO _with_ SLIP, _his Page_.