Part 3 (1/2)

SER. Signior Prospero.

LOR. SE. Signior Prospero? A young gentleman of the family of Strozzi, is he not?

SER. Ay, sir, the same: Signior Th.o.r.ello, the rich Florentine merchant married his sister.

[ENTER MUSCO.]

LOR. SE. You say very true. -- Musco.

MUS. Sir.

LOR. SE. Make this gentleman drink here.

I pray you go in, sir, an't please you.

[EXEUNT.]

Now (without doubt) this letter's to my son.

Well, all is one: I'll be so bold as read it, Be it but for the style's sake, and the phrase; Both which (I do presume) are excellent, And greatly varied from the vulgar form, If Prospero's invention gave them life.

How now! what stuff is here?

”Sir Lorenzo, I muse we cannot see thee at Florence: 'Sblood, I doubt, Apollo hath got thee to be his Ingle, that thou comest not abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heed of him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, or so; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known some of them, that have followed him, three, four, five years together, scorning the world with their bare heels, and at length been glad for a s.h.i.+ft (though no clean s.h.i.+ft) to lie a whole winter, in half a sheet cursing Charles'

wain, and the rest of the stars intolerably. But (quis contra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me; but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: I think I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, I can shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolute true Gulls, that ever thou saw'st, if thou wilt come.

'Sblood, invent some famous memorable lie, or other, to flap thy Father in the mouth withal: thou hast been father of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be no Poet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; say thou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. And then, too, thy Father will say thy wits are a wool- gathering. But it's no matter; the worse, the better.

Anything is good enough for the old man. Sir, how if thy Father should see this now? what would he think of me?

Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in my soul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him.

Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depth of our love, by all the strange sights we have seen in our days, (ay, or nights either), to come to me to Florence this day. Go to, you shall come, and let your Muses go spin for once. If thou wilt not, 's hart, what's your G.o.d's name? Apollo? Ay, Apollo. If this melancholy rogue (Lorenzo here) do not come, grant, that he do turn Fool presently, and never hereafter be able to make a good jest, or a blank verse, but live in more penury of wit and invention, than either the Hall-Beadle, or Poet Nuntius.”

Well, it is the strangest letter that ever I read.

Is this the man, my son so oft hath praised To be the happiest, and most precious wit That ever was familiar with Art?

Now, by our Lady's blessed son, I swear, I rather think him most unfortunate In the possession of such holy gifts, Being the master of so loose a spirit.

Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ With so profane a pen unto his friend?

The modest paper e'en looks pale for grief, To feel her virgin-cheek defiled and stained With such a black and criminal inscription.

Well, I had thought my son could not have strayed So far from judgment as to mart himself Thus cheaply in the open trade of scorn To jeering folly and fantastic humour.

But now I see opinion is a fool, And hath abused my senses. -- Musco.

[ENTER MUSCO.]

MUS. Sir.

LOR. SE. What, is the fellow gone that brought this letter?

MUS. Yes sir, a pretty while since.

LOR. SE. And where's Lorenzo?

MUS. In his chamber, sir.