rry? what, do you trouble yourself with two
palsies at once, shaking and laughing?

MEM. 'Tis a strange thing that men will so confidently oppose themselves
against Plato's great year.

PHA. Why not?

MEM. 'Tis as true an opinion as need be; for I remember it very readily
now, that this time 49,000 years ago all we were in this very place, and
your lordship judged the very same controversy, after the very same
manner, in all respects and circumstances alike.

COM. SEN. 'Tis wondrous strange.

ANA. By the same token you held your staff in your right hand, just as
you do now; and Master Phantastes stood wondering at you, gaping as wide
as you see him.

PHA. Ay, but I did not give you a box on the ear, sirrah, 49,000 years
ago, did I? [_Snap_.]

ANA. I do not remember that, sir.

PHA. This time Plato's twelvemonth to come, look you save your cheeks
better.

COM. SEN. But what entertainment had we at court for our long staying?

MEM. Let's go, I'll tell you as we walk.

PHA. If I do not seem pranker[297] now than I did in those days, I'll be
hanged.

[_Exeunt omnes interiores Sensus: manet_ LINGUA.

SCAENA OCTAVA.

LINGUA, MENDACIO.

LIN. Why, this is good. By Common Sense's means,
Lingua, thou hast fram'd a perfect comedy.
They are all good friends, whom thou mad'st enemies;
And I am half a Sense: a sweet piece of service,
I promise you, a fair step to preferment!
Was this the care and labour thou hast taken
To bring thy foes together to a banquet,
To lose thy crown, and be deluded thus!
Well, now I see my cause is desperate,
The judgment's pass'd, sentence irrevocable,
Therefore I'll be content and clap my hands,
And give a plaudite to their proceedings.
What, shall I leave my hate begun unperfect?
So foully vanquish'd by the spiteful Senses!
Shall I, the embassadress of gods and men,
That pull'd proud Phoebe from her brightsome sphere,
And dark'd Apollo's countenance with a word,
Raising at pleasure storms, and winds, and earthquakes,
Be overcrow'd, and breathe without revenge?
Yet they forsooth, base slaves, must be preferred,
And deck themselves with my right ornaments.
Doth the all-knowing Phoebus see this shame
Without redress? will not the heavens help me?
Then shall hell do it; my enchanting tongue
Can mount the skies, and in a moment fall
From the pole arctic to dark Acheron.
I'll make them know mine anger is not spent;
Lingua hath power to hurt, and will to do