Ben Jonson - The New Inn. Act 1. Scene 3. lyrics

Ferret, Host, Lovel. He'll make you a Bird of Night, Sir. Host. Bless you, Child, You'll make your selves such. Lov. That your Son, mine Host?En.Fra. (the Host speaks to his Child o' the by.) Host. He's all the Sons I have, Sir. Lov. Pretty Boy! Goes he to School? Fer. O Lord, Sir, he preates Latin And 'twere a Parrot, or a Play-boy. Lov. Thou -- Commend'st him fitly. Fer. To the pitch, he flies, Sir, He'll tell you what is Latin for a Looking-gla**, A Beard-brush, Rubber, or Quick-warming Pan. Lov. What's that? Fer. A Wench, i' the Inn-phrase, is all these; A Looking-Gla** in her Eye, A Beard-brush with her Lips, A Rubber with her Hand, And a Warming-pan with her Hips. Host. This, in your scurril Dialect. But my Inn Knows no such Language. F. That's because, mine Host, You do profess the teaching him your self. Host. Sir, I do teach him somewhat. By degress, And with a Funnel, I make shift to till The narrow Vessel, he is but yet a Bottle. Lov. O let him lose no time though. Host. Sir, he do's not. Lov. And less his manners . Host. I provide for those, too. Come hither frank, speak to the Gentleman In latin: He is melancholy; say, I long to see him merry, and so would treat him. Fra. Subtristis visu' es esse aliquantulum patri, Qui te laute excipere, etiam ac tractare gestit.. Lov. Pulchre. Host. Tell him, I fear it bodes us some ill luck, His too reservdness. Fra. Veretur pater, Ne quid nobis mali ominis apportet iste Nimis praeclusus vultus. Lov. Belle. A fine Child! You wo' not part with him, mine Host? H. Who told you I would not? Lov. I but ask you. Hos. And I answer, To whom? for what? Lov. To me, to be my Page. Host. I know no mischief yet the Child hath done, To deserve such a destiny. Lov. Why? Host. Go down Boy, And get your Breakfast. Trust me, I had rather Take a fair Halter, wash my Hands, and hang him My self, make a clean riddance of him, than -- Lov. What? Host. Than damn him to that desperate, which by a Line Of Institution, from our Ancestors, Hath been deriv'd down to us, and receiv'd In a Succesion, for the Noblest way Of breeding up our Youth, in Letters, Arms, Fair Mein, Discourses, civil Exercise, And all the Blazon of a Gentleman? Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence, To move his Body gracefuller? to speak His Language purer? or to tune his Mind, Or Manners, more to the harmony of Nature, Than in these Nurseries of Nobility? -- Host. I that was, when the Nurseries self was Noble, And only Vertue made it, not the Market, That Titles were not vented at the Drum, Or common out-cry; Goodness gave the Greatness, And Greatness Worship: Every House became An Academy of Honour, and those Parts -- We see departed, in the Practice, now, Quite from the Institution. Lov. Why do you say so? Or think so enviously? do they not still Learn there the Centaures Sk**, the Art of Thrace, To ride? or Pollux Mystery, to Fence? The Pyrrhick Gestures, both to Dance and Spring In Armour, to be active for the Wars? To study Figures, Numbers, and Proportions, May yield 'em great in Counsels, and the Arts Grave Nestor, and the wise Ulysses practis'd? To make their English sweet upon their Tongue! As Rev'rend Chaucer says? Host. Sir you mistake, To play Sir Pandarus my Copy hath it, And carry Messages to Madam Cresside. Instead of backing the brave Steed, o' Mornings, To mount the Chambermaid; and for a leap O' the vaulting Horse, to ply the vaulting House: For exercise of Arms, a Bale of Dice, Or two or three Packs of Cards to shew the Cheat, And nimbleness of Hand: mistake a Cloak From my Lords back, and pawn it. Ease his Pockets Of a superfluous Watch. Or geld a Jewel Of an odd Stone or so. twinge three or four bu*tons From off my Ladies Gown. These are the Arts, Or Seven liberal deadly Sciences Of Pagery, or rather paganism, As the Tides run. To which, if he apply him, He may, perhaps, take a degree at Tyburn, A year the earlier: come to read a Lecture Upon Aquinas at S. thomas a Waterings, And so go forth a Laureat in Hemp circle! Lov. You're tart, mine Host, and talk above your seasoning, O're what you seem: it should not come, methinks, Under your Cap, this Vein of salt and sharpness! These strikings upon Learning, now and then? How long have you, (if your dull Guest may ask it,) Drove this quick Trade, of keeping the Light-heart, Your Mansion, Palace here, or Hostelry? Host. Troth, I was born to somewhat, Sir, above it. Lov. I easily suspect that: Mine Host, your Name. Host. They call me Good-stock. Lov. Sir, and you confess it, Both i' your language, treaty and your Bearing. Host. Yet all, Sir, are not Sons o' the white Hen; Nor can we, as the Songster says, come all To be wrapt soft and warm in Fortunes Smock: When she is pleas'd to trick or tromp Mankind, Some may be Coats, as in the Cards; but, then Some must be Knaves, some Varlets, Bauds, and Ostlers, As Aces, Duizes, cards o'ten, to face it Out i' the Game, which all the World is. Lov. But, It being i' your free will (as 'twas) to choose What Parts you would sustain, methinks, a Man Of your sagacity, and clear Nostril, should Have made, another noise, than of a Place So sordid, as the keeping of an Inn: Where every jovial Tinker, for his Chink, May cry, mine Host, to Crambe, give us Drink; And do not slink, but skink, or else you stink Rogue, Baud, and Cheater, call you by the Surnames, And known Synonyma of your Profession. Host. But if I be no such; who then's the Rogue, In understanding, Sir, I mean? who errs? Who tinkleth then? or Personates Thom Tinker? Your Weazil here may tell you I talk baudy, And teach my Boy it; and you may believe him: But Sir, at your own Peril, if I do not: And at this too, if he do lye, and affirm it. No Slander strikes, less hurts, the Innocent. If I be honest, and that all the Cheat Be of my self, in keeping this Light Heart, Where, I imagine all the World's a Play; The State, and Mens Affairs, all Pa**ages Of Life, to spring new Scenes; come in, go out, And shift, and vanish; and if I have got A Seat, to sit at ease here, i' mine Inn, To see the Comedy; and laugh, and chuck At the variety and throng of humours And Dispositions, that come justling in, And out still, as they one drove hence another: Why, will you envy me my happiness? Because you are sad and lumpish; carry a Load-stone I' your Pocket, to hang Knives on; or jet Rings, T' entice light Straws to leap at 'em; are not taken With the alacrities of an Host! 'Tis more, And justlier, Sir, my wonder, why you took My House up, Fidlers Hall, the Seat of noise, And mirth, an Inn here, to be drousie in, And lodge your Lethargy in the Light Heart, As if some Cloud from Court had been your Harbinger, Or Cheap-side Debt-Books, or some Mistress charge, Seeing your Love grow corpulent, gi' it a Dyet, By absence, some such mouldy Pa**ion! Lo. 'Tis guess'd unhappily. Fe. Mine Host, yo're call'd. Host. I come, Boys. L. Ferret, have not you been ploughing With this mad Ox, mine Host? Nor he with you? Fer. For what Sir? Lov. Why, to find my Riddle out. Fer. I hope, you do believe, Sir, I can find Other Discourse to be at, than my Master With Hosts and Hostlers. Lov. If you can, 'tis well. Go down, and see, who they are come in, what Guests; And bring me word.