Ben Jonson - The Staple of News Act 5 Scene 1 lyrics

Peni-boy jun. To him, Tho. Barber. After, Picklock, He comes out in the patch'd Cloke his Father left him. Nay, they ere fit, as they had been made for me, And I am now a thing worth looking at! The same I said I would be in the Morning! No Rogue, at a Comitia of the Canters, Did ever there become his Parents Robes Better than I do these. Great Fool! and Beggar! Why do not all that are of those Societies Come forth, and gratulate me one of theirs? Me thinks I should be on every side saluted, Dauphine of Beggars, Prince of Prodigals! That have so fall'n under the Ears, and Eyes, And Tongues of all, the Fable of the Time, Matter of Scorn, and Mark of Reprehension! I now begin to see my Vanity Shine in this Gla**, reflected by the Foil! Where is my Fashioner? my Feather-man? My Linnener, Perfumer, Barber? all That Tail of Riot follow'd me this Morning? Not one! but a dark Solitude about me, Worthy my Cloak and Patches; as I had The epidemical Disease upon me: And I'll sit down with it. Tho. My Master! Maker! How do you? Why do you sit thus o' the ground, Sir? Hear you the News? P. jun. No, nor I care to hear none. Would I could here sit still, and slip away The other One and twenty, to have this Forgotten, and the Day raz'd out, expung'd, In every Ephemerides, or Almanack. Or if it must be in, that Time and Nature Have decreed; still let it be a Day Of tickling Prodigals about the Gills, Deluding gaping Heirs, losing their Loves, And their Discretions, falling from the Favours Of their best Friends and Parent, their own Hopes, And entring the Society of Canters. Tho. A doleful Day it is, and dismal Times Are come upon us: I am clear undone. P. jun. How, Thom? Tho. Why, broke, broke! wretchely broke! P. jun. Ha? Tho. Our Staple is all to pieces, quite dissolv'd! P. jun. Ha! Tho. Shiver'd, as in an Earthquake! Heard you not The Crack and Ruins? We are all blown up! Soon as they heard th' Infanta was got from them, Whom they had so devoured i' their Hopes, To be their Patroness, and sojourn with 'em, Our Emissaries, Register, Examiner, Flew into Vapour: our grave Governour Into a subt'ler Air, and is return'd (As we do hear) grand Captain of the Jeerers. I and my Fellow melted into bu*ter, And spoil' our Ink, and so the Office vanish'd. The last Hum that it made, was, That your Father And Picklock are fall'n out, the Man o' Law. P. jun. How? this awakes me from my Lethargy. [He starts up at this. Tho. And a great Suit is like to be between 'em: Picklock denies the Feoffment, and the Trust, (Your Father says) he made of the whole Estate Unto him, as respecting his Mortality, When he first laid this late Device, to try you. P. jun. Has Picklock then a Trust? Tho. I cannot tell, [Picklock enters. Here comes the worshipful — Pic. VVhat, my Velvet Heir Turn'd Begger in Mind, as Robes? P. jun. You see what case Your, and my Fathers Plots have brought me to. Pic. Your Father's, you may say, indeed, not mine. He's a hard-hearted Gentleman! I am sorry To see his rigid Resolution! That any Man should so put off Affection, And humane Nature, to destroy his own, And triumph in a Victory so cruel! He's fall'n out with me, for being yours, And calls me Knave, and Traytor to his Trust, Says he will have me thrown over the Bar —— P. jun. Ha' you deserv'd it? Pic. O, good Heaven knows My Conscience, and the silly Latitude of it; A narrow-minded Man! My Thoughts do dwell All in a Lane, or Line indeed: No Turning, Nor scarce Obliquity in them. I still look Right forward, to th' Intent and Scope of that VVhich he would go from now. P. jun. Had you a Trust then? Pic. Sir, I had somewhat will keep you still Lord Of all the Estate, (if I be honest) as I hope I shall. My tender scrupulous Breast VVill not permit me see the Heir defrauded, And like an Alien thrust out of the Blood. The Laws forbid that I should give consent To such a civil Slaughter of a Son. P. jun. Where is the Deed? Hast thou it with thee? Pic. No, It is a thing of greater consequence, Than to be born about in a Black Box, Like a Low-Country Vorloffe or Welsh Brief. It is at Lickfingers, under Lock and Key. P. jun. O, fetch it hither. Pic. I have bid him bring it, That you might see it. P. jun. Knows he what he brings? Pic. No more than a Gardiners Ass, what Roots he carries. P. jun. I was a sending my Father, like an Ass, A penitent Epistle; but I am glad I did not, now. Pic. Hang him, an austere Grape, That has no Juice, but what is Verjuice in him. [Peni-boy runs out to fetch his Letter. P. jun. I'll shew you my Letter! Pic. Shew me a Defiance! If I can now commit Father and Son, And make my Profits out of both; commence A Suit with the Old Man for his whole State, And go to Law with the Son's Credit, undo Both, both with their own Money, it were a piece Worthy my Night-cap, and the Gown I wear, A Picklock's Name in Law. Where are you, Sir? What do you do so long? P. jun. I cannot find Where I have laid it; but I have laid it safe. Pic. No matter, Sir; trust you unto my Trust, 'Tis that that shall secure you, an absolute Deed! And I confess, it was in Trust, for you, Lest any thing might have hapned mortal to him: But there must be a Gratitude thought on, And Aid, Sir, for the Charges of the Suit, Which will be great, 'gainst such a mighty Man As is our Father, and a Man possest Of so much Land, Pecunia and her Friends. I am not able to wage Law with him, Yet must maintain the thing, as my own Right, Still for your good, and therefore must be bold To use your Credit for Moneys. P. jun. What thou wilt, So we be safe, and the Trust bear it. Pic. Fear not, 'Tis he must pay Arrearages in the end. We'll milk him, and Pecunia, draw their Cream down, Before he get the Deed into his Hands. My Name is Picklock, but he'll find me a Padlock.