A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Ix Part 87

[_They run about him, playing with him, and abusing him_.

APP. To him, Mendacio, to him, to him.

MEN. There, there, Appet.i.tus, he comes, he comes; ware, ware, he comes; ha, ha, ha, ha!

[VISUS _stumbles, falls down, and sits still_.

SCAENA SEPTIMA.

MENDACIO, APPEt.i.tUS, TACTUS, _with a great blackjack in his hand_.

MEN. Is this he that thinks himself Hercules?

APP. Ay, wilt see me outswagger him?

MEN. Ay, do, do; I love not to sport with such mad playfellows: tickle him, Appet.i.tus; tickle him, tickle him. [_Exit_ MENDACIO.

TAC. Have I not here the great and puissant club, Wherewith I conquer'd three-chapp'd Cerberus?

APP. Have I not here the sharp and warlike teeth, That at one breakfast quail'd thrice-three hogs' faces?

TAC. And are not these Alcides' brawny arms, That rent the lion's jaws, and kill'd the boar?

APP. And is not this the stomach that defeated Nine yards of pudding and a rank[304] of pies?

TAC. Did not I crop the sevenfold hydra's crest, And with a river cleans'd Augaea's stable?

APP. Did not I crush a sevenfold custard's crust, And with my tongue swept a well-furnish'd table?

TAC. Did not these feet and hands o'ertake and slay The nimble stag and fierce impetuous bull?

APP. Did not this throat at one good meal devour That stag's sweet venison and that strong bull's beef?

TAC. Shall Hercules be thus disparaged?

Juno! you pouting quean, you louring trull, Take heed I take you not; for by Jove's thunder I'll be reveng'd.

[APPEt.i.tUS _draws_ VISUS _backward from_ TACTUS.

APP. Why, Visus, Visus, will you be kill'd? away, away.

[_Exit_ VISUS.

TAC. Who have we here? see, see, the giant Cacus Draws an ox backward to his thievish den.

Hath this device so long deluded me?

Monster of men, Cacus, restore my cattle, Or instantly I'll crush thy idle c.o.xcomb, And dash thy doltish brains against thy cave.

APP. Cacus! I Cacus? ha, ha, ha! Tactus, you mistake me; I am yours to command, Appet.i.tus.

TAC. Art Appet.i.tus? Th'art so; run quickly, villain; Fetch a whole ox to satisfy my stomach.

APP. Fetch an a.s.s to keep you company.

TAC. Then down to h.e.l.l: tell Pluto, prince of devils, That great Alcides wants a kitchen wench To turn his spit. Command him from myself To send up Proserpine; she'll serve the turn.

APP. I must find you meat, and the devil find you cooks!

Which is the next[305] way?

TAC. Follow the beaten path, thou canst not miss it.

'Tis a wide causeway that conducteth thither, An easy track, and down-hill all the way.

But if the black prince will not send her quickly, But still detain her for his bedfellow, Tell him I'll drag him from his iron chair By the steel tresses, and then sew him fast With the three furies in a leathern bag, And thus will drown them in the ocean.

_He pours the jack of beer upon_ APPEt.i.tUS.

APP. You had better keep him alive to light tobacco-pipes, or to sweep chimneys.

TAC. Art thou not gone? nay, then I'll send thy soul Before thee; 'twill do thy message sooner. [_Beats him_.

APP. Hercules, Hercules, Hercules! do not you hear Omphale? hark how she calls you, hark!

TAC. 'Tis she indeed, I know her sugar'd voice: Omphale, dear commandress of my life, My thoughts' repose, sweet centre of my cares, Where all my hopes and best desires take rest.

Lo! where the mighty son of Jupiter Throws himself captive at your conquering feet!

Do not disdain my voluntary humbleness: Accept my service, bless me with commanding.

I will perform the hardest imposition, And run through twelve new labours for thy sake.

Omphale, dear commandress of my life.

APP. Do you not see how she beckons to you to follow her? Look how she holds her distaff, look ye?

TAC. Where is she gone, that I may follow her?

Omphale, stay, stay, take thy Hercules!

APP. There, there, man, you are right.

[_Exit_ TACTUS.

SCAENA OCTAVA.

APPEt.i.tUS _solus_.

APP. What a strange temper are the Senses in!

How come their wits thus topsy-turvy turn'd?

Hercules Tactus, Visus Polypheme!

Two goodly surnames have they purchased.

By the rare ambrosia[306] of an oyster-pie, They have got such proud imaginations, That I could wish I were mad for company: But since my fortunes cannot stretch so high, I'll rest contented with this wise estate.