Poems with the Muses looking-glasse: and Amyntas· By Thomas Randolph Master of Arts, and late fellow of Trinity Colledge in Cambridge.

SCEN. 3.

• Orgylus.
• Aorgus.

Rosc.

These are the extreams of Meeknesse. Orgylus an angry quarrelsome man, mov'd with the least shadow, or appearance of Iniury. The other in defect, Aorgus, a fel∣low so patient, or rather insensible of wrong, that he is not capable of the grossest abuse.

Org.

Perswade me not, he has awak'd a fury That carries steele about him. Daggs, and Pistolls! To bite his thumb at me?

Aor.

Why should not any man Bite his own thumbe?

Org.

At mee? weare I a sword To see men bite their thumbs—Rapiers and Daggers!- He is the sonne of a Whore.

Aor.

That hurts not you. Had he bit yours, it had been some pretence T'have mov'd this anger—he may bite his own, And eate it too.

Org.

Muskets, and Canons!-eate it? If he dare eate it in contempt of me, He shall eate something else too that rides here; Ile try his estridg stomack.

Aor.

Sir be patient.

Org.

You lye in your throat, and I will not.

Aor.

To what purpose is this impertinent madnesse? Pray be milder.

Org.

Your Mother was a whore, & I will not put it up.

Aor.

Why should so slight a toye thus trouble you?

Org.

Your Father was hang'd, and I will be reveng'd.

Aor.

When reason dorh in equall ballance poize The nature of two injuries, yours to me Lyes heavy, when that other would not turne An even scale; and yet it moves not mee; My Anger is not up.

Org.

But I will raise it; You are a foole!

Aor.

I know it, and shall I Be angry for a truth?

Org.

You are besides An arrant knave!

Aor.

So are my betters sir.

Org.

I cannot move him—O my spleen!—it rises, For very anger I could eat my knuckles.

Aor.

You may, or bite your thumb all's one to mee.

Org.

You are a horned beast, a very Cuckold!

Aor.

'Tis my wives fault, not mine, I have no reason Then to be angry for anothers finne.

Org.

And I did graft your horns, you might have come And found us glewd together like two goats; And stood a witnesse to your transformation.

Aor.

Why if I had, I am so farre from anger I would have e'ne falne down upon my knees, And desir'd heaven to have forgiven you both.

Org.

Your Children are all bastards, not one of them, Vpon my knowledge, of your own begetting.

Aor.

Why then I am the more beholding to them That they will call me father; it was lust

Perchance, that did beget them, but I am sure 'Tis charity to keepe the Infants.

Org.

Not yet stirr'd? 'Tis done of meere contempt, he will not now Be angry, to expresse his scorne of me. 'Tis above patience this, insufferable. Proclaime me coward, if I put up this! Dotard you will be angry, will you not?

Aor.

To see how strange a course fond wrath doth goe! You will be angry 'cause I am not so.

Or.

I, can endure no longer, if your spleene Lye in your breech, thus I will kick it up.-

Aor.

Alpha. Beta. Gamma. Delta. Epsylon. Zeta. Eta. Theta. Iota. Kappa. Lamda▪ Mu. Nu. Xi. Omicron. Pi. Ro. Sigma. Tau. Vpsilon. Phi. Chi. Psi. Omega.

Org.

How? what contempt is this?

Aor.

An antidote Against the poison, Anger: 'twas prescrib'd A Roman Emperour, that on every injury Repeated the Greek Alphabet, that being done His anger too was over. This good rule I learn'd from him, and Practise.

Org.

Not yet angry? Still will you vexe me? I will practise too?

(Kicks again)

Aor.

Aleph. Beth. Gimel.

Org.

What new Alphabet Is this?

Aor.

The Hebrew Alphabet, that I use A second remedy.

Org.

O my Torment! still?

Are not your Buttocks angry with my toes?

Aor.

For ought I feele your toes have more occasion For to be angry with my Buttocks.

Org.

Well, I'le try your Physick for the third assault; And exercise the patience of your nose.

Aor.

A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. K. L. M. N. O. P. Q. R. S. T. V. W. X. Y. Z.

Org.

Are you not angry now?

Aor.

Now sir, why now? Now you have done.

Org.

O 'tis a meere plot this, To jeere my tamenesse: will no sense of wrong Waken the lethargy of a cowards soule? Will not this rowse her •…•…rom her dead sleepe, nor this?

Aor.

Why should I sir be angry; if I suffer An injury, it is no guilt of mine; No, let it trouble them, that doe the wrong; Nothing but peace approaches innocence.

Org.

A bitternesse o'reflows me; my eyes flame, My blood boyles in me, all my faculties Of soule and body move in a disorder; His patience hath so tortur'd me: Sirra villain I will dissect thee with my rapiers point; Rip up each veine, and sinewe of my storque, Anatomize him, searching every entraile, To see if nature, when she made this asse, This suffering asse; did not forget to give him Some gall!

Cola.

Put it up good Orgylus,

Let him not glory in so brave a death, As by your hand; it stands not with your honour To stain your rapier in a cowards blood. The Lybian Lions in their noble rage Will prey on Bulls, or mate the Vnicorne; But trouble not the painted butterflye; Ants crawle securely by him.

Orgy.

'Tis intollerable! Would thou wert worth the killing.

Colax.

A good wish, Savouring as well discretion, as bold valour: Think not of such a baffel'd asse as this, More stone, then man: Medusa's head has turn'd him. There is in ants a choler, every flye Carries a spleene: Poore wormes being trampled on Turne tayle, as bidding battaile to the feet Of their oppref•…•…ors. A dead palsy sure Hath struck a desperate numnesse through his soule, Till it be growne insensible: Meere stupidity Hath ceaz'd him: Your more manly soule I find Is capable of wrong, and like a flint Throwes forth a fire into the strikers eyes. You beare about you valours whetstone, anger; Which sets an edge upon the sword, and makes it Cut with a •…•…pirit: you conceive fond patience Is an injustice to our selves, the suffering One injury invites a second, that Calls on a third, till wrongs doe multiply And reputation bleed: How bravely anger Becomes that martiall brow! A glasse within

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Will shew you sir when your great spleene doth rise How fury darts a lightning from your eyes.

Org.

Learne anger sir against you meet me next; Never was man like me with patience vext.

Exit.

Aor.

I am so farre from anger in my selfe, That 'tis my grief I can make others so.

Colax.

It proves a sweetnesse in your disposition, A gentle winning carriage—deare Aorgus O give me leave to open wide my brest, And let so rare a freind unto my soule; Enter, and take possession: such a man As has no gall, no bitternesse, no exceptions, Whom nature meant a Dove, will keepe alive The •…•…ame of amitie, where all discourse Flowes innocent, and each free jest is taken. Hee's a good freind will pardon his freinds errours, But hee's a better takes no notice of them. How like a beast with rude and savage rage Breath'd the distemper'd soule of Orgylus? The pronenesse of this passion is the Nurse That fosters all confusion, ruines states, Depopulates Cities, layes great Kingdomes wast; 'Tis that affection of the mind that wants The strongest bridle; give it raines it runnes A desperate course, and drags downe reason with it. It is the whirlwind of the soule, the storme And tempest of the mind, that raises up The billowes of disturbed passions To shipwrack Iudgment. O—a soule like yours Constant in patience! Let the North wind mee•…•…

The South at sea, and Zephyrus breath opposite To Eurus; let the two and thirty sonnes Of Eolus break forth at once, to plow The Ocean, and dispeople all the woods, Yet here could be a calme, it is not danger Can make this cheeke grow pale, nor injury Call blood into it. Their's a Glasse within Will let you see your selfe, and tell you now How sweet a tamenesse dwells upon your brow.

Aor.

Colax, I must believe, and therefore goe; Who is distrustfull will be angry too.