Ben Jonson - Every Man out of His Humour

strong use of me here before you: but I protest —

[ENTER CARLO BUFFONE, FOLLOWED BY A BOY WITH WINE.

CAR. Come, come, leave these fustian protestations; away, come, I cannot

abide these grey-headed ceremonies. Boy, fetch me a glass quickly, I may

bid these gentlemen welcome; give them a health here. [EXIT BOY.] I

mar'le whose wit it was to put a prologue in yond' sackbut's mouth; they

might well think he'd be out of tune, and yet you'd play upon him too.

COR. Hang him, dull block!

CAR. O, good words, good words; a well-timber'd fellow, he would have made

a good column, an he had been thought on, when the house was a building —

[RE-ENTER BOY WITH GLASSES..

O, art thou come? Well said; give me, boy; fill so! Here's a cup of wine

sparkles like a diamond. Gentlewomen (I am sworn to put them in first) and

gentlemen, around, in place of a bad prologue, I drink this good draught to

your health here, Canary, the very elixir and spirit of wine. [DRINKS.]

This is that our poet calls Castalian liquor, when he comes abroad now and

then, once in a fortnight, and makes a good meal among players, where he

has 'caninum appetitum'; marry, at home he keeps a good philosophical diet,

beans and butter-milk; an honest pure rogue, he will take you off three,

four, five of these, one after another, and look villainously when he has

done, like a one-headed Cerberus. — He does not hear me, I hope. — And

then, when his belly is well ballaced, and his brain rigged a little, he

snails away withal, as though he would work wonders when he comes home. He

has made a play here, and he calls it, 'Every Man out of his Humour': but

an he get me out of the humour he has put me in, I'll trust none of his

tribe again while I live. Gentles, all I can say for him is, you are

welcome. I could wish my bottle here amongst you; but there's an old rule,

No pledging your own health. Marry, if any here be thirsty for it, their

best way (that I know) is, sit still, seal up their lips, and drink so much

of the play in at their ears.

[EXIT.

MIT. What may this fellow be, Cordatus?

COR. Faith, if the time will suffer his description, I'll give it you. He

is one, the author calls him Carlo Buffone, an impudent common jester, a

violent railer, and an incomprehensible epicure; one whose company is

desired of all men, but beloved of none; he will sooner lose his soul than

a jest, and profane even the most holy things, to excite laughter: no

honourable or reverend personage whatsoever can come within the reach of

his eye, but is turned into all manner of variety, by his adulterate

similes.

MIT. You paint forth a monster.

COR. He will prefer all countries before his native, and thinks he can

never sufficiently, or with admiration enough, deliver his affectionate

conceit of foreign atheistical policies. But stay —

[ENTER MACILENTE.

Observe these: he'll appear himself anon.

MIT. O, this is your envious man, Macilente, I think.

COR. The same, sir.

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