I cannot show in strange proportion, Changing my hue like a cameleon; But you all-canning[347] wits, hold water out, Ye vizarded-bifronted-Janian rout. Tell me, brown Ruscus, hast thou Gyges' ring, That thou presumest as if thou wert unseen? If not, why in thy wits half capreal Lett'st thou a superscribèd letter fall? And from thyself unto thyself dost send, And in the same thyself thyself commend? 10 For shame! leave running to some satrapas, Leave glavering[348] on him in the peopled press; Holding him on as he through Paul's doth walk, With nods and legs[349] and odd superfluous talk; Making men think thee gracious in his sight, When he esteems thee but a parasite. For shame! unmask; leave for to cloke intent, And show thou art vain-glorious, impudent. Come, Briscus, by the soul of compliment, I'll not endure that with thine instrument 20 (Thy gambo-viol placed betwixt thy thighs, Wherein the best part of thy courtship lies) Thou entertain the time, thy mistress by. Come, now let's hear thy mounting Mercury. What! mum? Give him his fiddle once again, Or he's more mute than a Pythagoran. But oh! the absolute Castilio,[350]-- He that can all the points of courtship show; He that can trot a courser, break a rush, And arm'd in proof, dare dure a straw's strong push; 30 He, who on his glorious scutcheon Can quaintly show wit's new invention, Advancing forth some thirsty Tantalus, Or else the vulture on Prometheus, With some short motto of a dozen lines; He that can purpose it in dainty rhymes, Can set his face, and with his eye can speak, Can dally with his mistress' dangling feak,[351] And wish that he were it, to kiss her eye And flare about her beauty's deity:-- 40 Tut! he is famous for his revelling, For fine set speeches, and for sonnetting; He scorns the viol and the scraping stick, And yet's but broker of another's wit. Certes, if all things were well known and view'd, He doth but champ that which another chew'd. Come, come, Castilion, skim thy posset curd, Show thy queer substance, worthless, most absurd. Take ceremonious compliment from thee! Alas! I see Castilio's beggary. 50 O if Democritus were now alive, How he would laugh to see this devil thrive! And by an holy semblance blear men's eyes, When he intends some damnèd villanies. Ixion makes fair weather unto Jove, That he might make foul work with his fair love; And is right sober in his outward semblance, Demure, and modest in his countenance; Applies himself to great Saturnus' son, Till Saturn's daughter yields his motion. 60 Night-shining Phoebe knows what was begat-- A monstrous Centaur illegitimate. Who would not chuck to see such pleasing sport-- To see such troops of gallants still resort