PROS. Prosaites, sir.

ASO. Prosaites! a very fine name; Crites, is it not?

CRI. Yes, and a very ancient one, sir, the Beggar.

ASO. Follow me, good Prosaites; let's talk.

[EXEUNT ALL BUT CRITES.]

CRI. He will rank even with you, ere't be long.
If you hold on your course. O, vanity
How are thy painted beauties doted on,
By light and empty idiots! how pursued
With open, and extended appetite!
How they do sweat, and run themselves from breath,
Raised on their toes, to catch thy airy forms,
Still turning giddy, till they reel like drunkards,
That buy the merry madness of one hour
With the long irksomeness of following time!
O, how despised and base a thing is man,
If he not strive to erect his grovelling thoughts
Above the strain of flesh? but how more cheap,
When, ev'n his best and understanding part,
The crown and strength of all his faculties,
Floats, like a dead drown'd body, on the stream
Of vulgar humour, mixt with common'st dregs!
I suffer for their guilt now, and my soul,
Like one that looks on ill-affected eyes,