[_Enter_] MILECTUS, PHRYGIUS, [_and_] LAIS.[956] [DIOGENES _is in his
tub_.]
_Mil._ It shall goe hard but this peace shall bring us some pleasure.
_Phry._ Downe with armes, and up with legges! This is a world for the
nonce![957]
_Lais._ Sweet youths, if you knew[958] what it were to save your
sweet blood, you would not so foolishly go about to spend it. 5
What delight can there be in gashing, to make foule scarres in
faire faces, and crooked maimes in streight legges, as though men,
being borne goodly by nature, would of purpose become deformed
by folly,--and all, forsooth for a new-found tearme, called
_valiant_, a word which breedeth more quarrels than the sense can
commendation? 10
_Mil._ It is true, Lais, a feather-bed hath no fellow. Good drinke
makes good blood, and shall pelting[959] words spill it?
_Phry._ I meane to enjoy the world, and to draw out my life at
the wire-drawers; not to curtall it off at the cutlers. 15
_Lais._ You may talke of warre, speake bigge, conquer worlds
with great words; but stay at home, where in steade of alarums
you shall have dances, for hot battailes with fierce men, gentle
skirmishes with faire women. These pewter coates[960] can never sit
so well as satten doublets. Beleeve me, you cannot conceive the 20
pleasure of peace unlesse you despise the rudenes of warre.
_Mil._ It is so. But see Diogenes prying over his tub! Diogenes
what sayest thou to such a morsell? [_Pointing to Lais._]
_Diog._ I say I would spit it out of my mouth, because it should not
poyson my stomacke. 25
_Phry._ Thou speakest as thou art; it is noe meate for dogges.
_Diog._ I am a dogge, and philosophy rates[961] me from carrion.
_Lais._ Uncivil wretch, whose manners are answerable to thy calling,
the time was thou wouldest have had my company, had it not beene, as
thou saidst, too deare. 30
_Diog._ I remember there was a thing that I repented mee of, and
now thou hast tolde it. Indeed, it was too deare of nothing,[962] and
thou deare to no bodie.
_Lais._ Downe, villaine, or I will have thy head broken!
_Mil._ Will you couch?[963] 35
_Phry._ Avant, curre! Come, sweet Lays, let us goe to some
place and possesse peace. But first let us sing; there is more
pleasure in tuning of a voyce, than in a volly of shot. [_A Song._]
_Mil._ Now let us make hast, least Alexander finde us here!
_Exeunt_ [_all except Diogenes._]