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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1862 Excerpt: ...tenter-hooks, to take Of all occasions! for Friday cannot fish out hold The end I aim at: Tell me of Diocles, And what he dares do! Dare he meet me naked? Thunder in this hand j in his left--... More

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1862 Excerpt: ...tenter-hooks, to take Of all occasions! for Friday cannot fish out hold The end I aim at: Tell me of Diocles, And what he dares do! Dare he meet me naked? Thunder in this hand j in his left--Fool! Pool. Yes, sir. Chi. Fool, I would have thee fly i' th' air, fly Bwiftly To that place where the sun sets, there deliver--Fool. Deliver? What, sir? Chi. This, sir, this, you slave, sir '.--W �� 'Death, ye rude rogues, ye scarabs! iSeiia the Fool Pool. Hold, for Heaven's sake, Lieutenant, sweet lieutenant! Chi. I have done, sir. Page. You have wrung his neck off. Chi. No, boy; 'tis the nature Of this strange passion, when it hits, to hale people Along by the hair, to kick 'em, break their head. Fool. Do you call this acting? was your part to beat me? Chi. Yes, I must act all that he does. Fool. Plague act you! I'll act no more. Stre. 'Tis but to shew, man. Fool. Then, man, He should have shew'd it only, and not done it; I am sure he beat me beyond action.--Gouts o' your heavy fist! Chi. I'll have thee to him; Thou hast a fine wit, fine fool, and canst plat He'll hug thee, boy, and stroke thee. rarely. Fool. I'll to the stocks first, Ere I be stroked thus. Stre. But how came he, Chilax! Chi. I know not that. Stre. I'll to him. Chi. He loves thee well. And much delights to hear thee sing; much taken He has been with thy battle songs. Stre. If music Can find his madness, I'll so fiddle him, That out it shall by tli' shouldecs. Chi. My tine fiddler, He'll firk you, an you take not heed too.--'Twill be rare sport Aside. To see his own trade triumph over him; His lute laced to his head, for creeping hedges; For money, there's none stirring.--Try, good Stremon, Now what your silver sound can do; our voices Are but vain echoes. Stre. Something shall be done Shall...

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