SCÆNA V.
Enter four men at one door, and four at another, with their swords drawn.
1 Soldier.Stand. Who goes there?
2 Sol. A friend.
1 Sol. What friend?
2 Sol. A friend to the House.
1 Sol. Fall on. [They all kill one another.Musick strikes.
Bayes. Hold, hold. [To the Musick. It ceaseth.
Now here's an odd surprise: all these dead men you shall see rise up presently, at a certain Note that I have made, in Effaut flat, and fall a Dancing. Do you hear, dead men? remember your Note in Effaut flat. Play on. [To the Musick.Now, now, now. [The Musick play his Note, and the dead
men rise; but cannot get in order.
O Lord, O Lord!
Out, out, out! Did ever men spoil a good thing so? no figure, no ear, no time, no thing? you dance worse than the Angels in Harry the Eight, or the fat Spirits in The Tempest, I gad.
1 Sol. Why, Sir, 'tis impossible to do any thing in time, to this Tune.
Bayes. O Lord, O Lord! impossible? why, Gentlemen, if there be any faith in a person that's a Christian, I sate up two whole nights in composing this Air, and apting it for the business: for, if you observe, there are two several Designs in this Tune; it begins swift, and ends slow. You talk of time, and time; you shall see me do't. Look you now. Here I am dead. [Lyes down flat on his face.Now mark my Note in Effaut flat. Strike up Musick.
Now. [As he rises up hastily, he tumbles and falls down again.
Ah, gadsookers, I have broke my Nose.
Johns. By my troth, Mr. Bayes, this is a very unfortunate Note of yours, in Effaut flat.
Bayes. A plague of this damn'd Stage, with your nails, and your tenter-hooks, that a man cannot come to teach you to Act, but he must break his nose, and his face, and the divel and all. Pray, Sir, can you help me to a wet piece of brown papyr?
Smi. No indeed, Sir; I don't usually carry any about me.
2 Sol. Sir, I'l go get you some within presently.
Bayes. Go, go then; I'l follow you. Pray dance out the Dance, and I'l be with you in a moment. Remember you four that you dance like Horsemen. [Exit Bayes.
They dance the Dance, but can make nothing of it.
1 Sol. A Devil! let's try this no more: play my Dance that Mr. Bayes found fault with. [Dance, & Exeumt.
Smi. What can this fool be doing all this while about his nose?
Johns. Pr'ythee let's go see. [Exeunt.
Finis Actus secundi.