Well, let the memory of her
fleet into air; my thoughts and I am for this other element, water.
ENTER CRITES AND ASOTUS.
CRI. What, the well dieted Amorphus become a water-drinker! I see
he means not to write verses then.
ASO. No, Crites! why?
CRI. Because --
Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,
Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.
AMO. What say you to your Helicon?
CRI. O, the Muses' well! that's ever excepted.
AMO. Sir, your Muses have no such water, I assure you; your
nectar, or the juice of your nepenthe, is nothing to it; 'tis above
your metheglin, believe it.
ASO. Metheglin; what's that, sir? may I be so audacious to
demand?
AMO. A kind of Greek wine I have met with, sir, in my travels; it
is the same that Demosthenes usually drunk, in the composure of all
his exquisite and mellifluous orations.
CRI. That's to be argued, Amorphus, if we may credit Lucian, who,
in his "Encomio Demosthenis," affirms, he never drunk but water in
any of his compositions.
AMO. Lucian is absurd, he knew nothing: I will believe mine own
travels before all the Lucians of Europe. He doth feed you with
fittons, figments, and leasings.
CRI. Indeed, I think, next a traveller, he does prettily well.
Pages:
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82