Since court and city both grow proud, And safety you delight to hear, We in the country will us shroud, Where lives to please both eye and ear: The nightingale sings jug, jug, jug, The little lamb leaps after his dug, And the pretty milk-maids they look so smug, And the pretty milk-maids, &c. Come, Scevola, shall we go and be idle? Lucretius. I’ll in to weep. Horatius. But I my gall to grate. Scevola. I’ll laugh at time, till it will change our fate. [_Exeunt all but_ Collatine. Collatine. Thou art not what thou seem’st, Lord Scevola; Thy heart mourns in thee, though thy visage smile; And so does thy soul weep, Valerius, Although thy habit sing; for these new humours Are but put on for safety, and to arm them Against the pride of Tarquin, from whose danger, None great in love, in counsel, or opinion, Can be kept safe: this makes me lose[5.20] my hours At home with Lucrece, and abandon court. _Enter_ Clown. Clown. Fortune, I embrace thee, that thou hast assisted me in finding my master; the gods of good Rome keep my lord and master out of all bad company! Collatine. Sirrah, the news with you? Clown. Would you ha’ court news, camp news, city news, or country news, or would you know what’s the news at home? Collatine. Let me know all the news. Clown. The news at court is, that a small leg and a silk stocking is in the fashion for your lord, and the water that God Mercury makes[5.21] is in request with your lady. The heaviness of the king’s wine makes many a light head, and the emptiness of his dishes many full bellies; eating and drinking was never more in use; you shall find the baddest legs in boots, and the worst faces in masks. They keep their old stomachs still: the king’s good cook hath the most wrong; for that which was wont to be private only to him is now usurped among all the other officers; for now every man in his place, to the prejudice of the master cook, makes bold to lick his own fingers. Collatine. The news in the camp? Clown. The greatest news in the camp is that there is no news at all; for being no camp at all, how can there be any tidings from it? Collatine. Then for the city? Clown. The senators are rich, their wives fair, credit grows cheap, and traffic dear, for you have many that are broke; the poorest man that is may take up what he will, so he will be but bound--to a post till he pay the debt. There was one courtier lay with twelve men’s wives in the suburbs, and pressing farther to make one more cuckold within the walls, and being taken with the manner,[5.22] had nothing to say for himself but this--he that made twelve made thirteen. Collatine. Now, sir, for the country? Clown. There is no news there but at the ale-house; there’s the most receipt. And is it not strange, my lord, that so many men love ale that know not what ale is?