Scene 2.
Strepsiades, Scholar.
Streps.
THough I have fail'd, i'l not give over thus,
But say my prayers, and go my self to school
To learn this Art: but how can I, by Age
Dull and forget full, reach such subtleties?
Yet on I will, why should I doubt? ho, friend.
Sc••ol.
A mischief on you, who's that knocks at dore?
Streps.
Strepsiades, Cecinnian Phaedo's Son.
Schol.
'T was rudely done to knock so hard, y'have made
My labouring brain miscarry of a Notion.
Streps.
Forgive me, I was bred far off ith' Country:
But pray what notion was't that prov'd abortive?
Schol.
'Tis lawfull to discover that tonone
But fellow-scholars.
Streps.
Then you may tell me,
For I come hither to be one of you.
Schol.
I will; so will value't as a mysterie.
Socrates t'other day ask'd Chaerephons eyebrow,
And leap'd from thence upon the head of Socrates.
Streps.
How could he measure this?
Schol.
Most dexterously.
Both feet oth' flea he dipt in melting wax,
Which strait congeals to shooes; these he plucks off,
And with them most exactly measures it.
Streps.
Great Iupiter, how subtle are these wits!
Schol.
If you shouldst hear their other speculations,
You would say so indeed.
Streps.
Pray what was that?
Schol.
This Charaephon the Sphettian ask'd him once,
If a Gnat sounded from her mouth or tail.
Streps.
And what said he?
It had a strait thin gut,
At end of it a bladder, into which
The air being forc'd, sounded in breaking forth.
Streps.
Then I perceive that a gnat's tail's a Trumpet;
How blest is this Anatomist of Gnats!
Sure he can hide himself from purblind justice,
That knows so well these dark intestine waies.