Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Merecraft, Fitz-dottrell, Ingine.
Where are you, Sir?
Fit.
I see thou hast no Talent
This way, VVife. Up to thy Gallery; do Chuck,
Leave us to talk of it, who understand it.
Mer.
I think we ha' found a Place to fit you, now, Sir.
Glocester.
Fit.
O, no, I'll none!
Mer.
VVhy, Sir? Fit. 'Tis fatal.
Mer.
That you say right in. Spenser, I think the younger.
Had his last Honour thence. But, he was but Earl.
Fit.
I know not that, Sir. But Thomas of Woodstock,
I'm sure, was Duke, and he was made away
At Calice, as Duke Humphery was at Bury:
And Richard the Third, you know what end he came too.
Mer.
By m' faith you are cunning i' the Chronicle, Sir.
Fit.
No, I confess I ha't from the Play books,
And think they'are more Authentick.
Ing.
That's sure, Sir.
Mer.
VVhat say you (to this then)
[He whispers him of a Place.
Fit.
No, a noble House.
Pretends to that. I will do no Man wrong.
Mer.
Then take one Proposition more, and hear it
As past exception.
Fit.
What's that?
Mer.
To be Duke of those Lands, you shall recover: take
Your Title thence, Sir, Duke of the Drown'd Lands,
Or Drown'd-land.
Fit.
Ha? that last has a good sound!
I like it well. The Duke of Drown'd-land?
Ing.
Yes; It goes like Groen-land, Sir, if you mark it.
Mer.
I,
And drawing thus your honour from the work,
You make the Reputation of that, greater;
And stay't the longer i' your Name.
Fit.
'Tis true.
Drown'd-lands will live in Drown'd-land!
Mer.
Yes, when you
Ha' no foot left; as that must be, Sir, one day.
And, though it tarry in your Heirs, some Forty,
Fifty Descents, the longer liver, at last, y et,
Must thrust 'em out on't: if no Quirk in Law,
Or odd Vice o' their own not do it first.
We see those changes, daily: the fair Lands,
That were the Clyents, are the Lawyers, now:
And those rich Mannors, there, of Good-man Taylors,
Had once more Wood upon 'em, then the Yard,
By which th' were measur'd out for the last Purchase.
Nature hath these vicissitudes. She makes
No man a state of Perpetuety, Sir.
Fit.
Yo' are i' the right. Let's in then, and conclude.
[He spies Devil.
I my sight, again? I'll talk with you anon.