Sleep, grim Reproof; my jocund muse doth sing In other keys, to nimbler fingering. Dull-sprighted Melancholy, leave my brain-- To hell,[584] Cimmerian night! in lively vein I strive to paint, then hence all dark intent And sullen frowns! Come, sporting Merriment, Cheek-dimpling Laughter, crown my very soul With jouisance, whilst mirthful jests control The gouty humours of these pride-swoll'n days, Which I do long until my pen displays. 10 O, I am great with Mirth! some midwif'ry, Or I shall break my sides at vanity. Room for a capering mouth, whose lips ne'er stir But in discoursing of the graceful slur.[585] Who ever heard spruce skipping Curio E'er prate of ought but of the whirl on toe, The turn-above-ground, Robrus' sprawling kicks, Fabius' caper, Harry's tossing tricks? Did ever any ear e'er hear him speak Unless his tongue of cross-points did entreat? 20 His teeth do caper whilst he eats his meat, His heels do caper whilst he takes his seat; His very soul, his intellectual Is nothing but a mincing capreal.[586] He dreams of toe-turns; each gallant he doth meet He fronts him with a traverse in the street. Praise but Orchestra,[587] and the skipping art, You shall command him, faith you have his heart Even cap'ring in your fist. A hall, a hall![588] Room for the spheres, the orbs celestial 30 Will dance Kempe's[589] jig: they'll revel with neat jumps; A worthy poet hath put on their pumps. O wit's quick traverse, but _sance ceo's_ [?] slow; Good faith 'tis hard for nimble Curio. "Ye gracious orbs, keep the old measuring; All's spoil'd if once ye fall to capering." Luscus, what's play'd to-day? Faith now I know I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow Naught but pure Juliet and Romeo. Say who acts best? Drusus or Roscio? 40 Now I have him, that ne'er of ought did speak But when of plays or players he did treat-- Hath made a common-place[590] book out of plays, And speaks in print: at least what e'er he says Is warranted by Curtain plaudities. If e'er you heard him courting Lesbia's eyes, Say (courteous sir), speaks he not movingly, From out some new pathetic tragedy? He writes, he rails, he jests, he courts (what not?), And all from out his huge long-scraped stock 50 Of well-penn'd plays. Oh come not within distance! Martius speaks, Who ne'er discourseth but of fencing feats, Of _counter times_,[591] _finctures_, sly _passatas_, _Stramazones_, resolute _stoccatas_, Of the quick change with wiping _mandritta_, The _carricada_, with the _embrocata_. "Oh, by Jesu, sir!" methinks I hear him cry, "The honourable fencing mystery Who doth not honour?" Then falls he in again, 60 Jading our ears, and somewhat must be sain Of blades and rapier-hilts, of surest guard,