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pass: the crier now tries the strength of his throat, and the bearward leads his bear home after his challenge: the players' bills are almost all set up, and the clerk of the market begins to shew his office. In sum, in this hour there is much to do, as well in the city, as the country: and therefore to be short, I will thus make my conclusion: I hold it the toil of wit and the trial of reason. Farewell.

Ten of the Clock.

It is now the tenth hour, and now preparation is to be made for dinner the trenchers must be scraped and the napkins folded, the salt covered and the knives scoured and the cloth laid, the stools set ready and all for the table: there must be haste in the kitchen for the boiled and the roast, provision in the cellar for wine, ale and beer: the pantler and the butler must be ready in their office, and the usher of the hall must marshal the serving-men: the hawk must be set on the perch, and the dogs put into the kennel, and the guests that come to dinner must be invited against the hour: the scholars now fall to construe and parse, and the lawyer makes his client either a man or a mouse: the chapmen now draw home to their inns, and the shopmen fall to folding up their wares: the ploughman now begins to grow towards home, and the dairy maid, after her work, falls to cleansing of her vessels: the cook is cutting sops for broth, and the butler is chipping of loaves for the table: the minstrels begin to go towards the taverns, and the cursed crew visit the vile places. In sum, I thus conclude of it: I hold it the messenger to the stomach and the spirit's recreation. Farewell.

Eleven of the Clock.

It is now the eleventh hour, children must break up school, lawyers must make home to their houses, merchants to the exchange, and gallants to the ordinary: the dishes set ready for the meat, and the glasses half full of fair water: now the market people make towards their horses, and the beggars begin to draw near the towns: the porridge, put off the fire, is set a cooling for the plough folk, and the great loaf and the cheese are set ready on the table: colleges and halls ring to dinner, and a scholar's commons is soon digested: the rich man's guests are at curtsy, and "I thank you": and the poor man's feast is "Welcome,

and God be with you": the page is ready with his knife and his trencher, and the meat will be half cold, ere the guests can agree on their places: the cook voids the kitchen, and the butler the buttery, and the serving-men stand all ready at the dresser: the children are called to say grace before dinner, and the nice people rather look than eat: the gates be locked for fear of the beggars, and the minstrels called in to be ready with their music: the pleasant wit is now breaking a jest, and the hungry man puts his jaws to their proof. In sum, to conclude my opinion of it, I hold it the epicure's joy and the labourer's ease. Farewell.

Twelve of the Clock.

It is now the twelfth hour, the sun is at his height, and the middle of the day: the first course is served in, and the second ready to follow: the dishes have been read over, and the reversion set by: the wine begins to be called for, and who waits not is chidden: talk passeth away time, and when stomachs are full discourses grow dull and heavy, but after fruit and cheese say grace and take away: now the markets are done, the exchange broke up, and the lawyers at dinner, and Duke Humphrey's servants make their walks in Paul's: the shopmen keep their shops, and their servants go to dinner: the traveller begins to call for a reckoning, and goes into the stable to see his horse eat his provender: the ploughman now is at the bottom of his dish, and the labourer draws out his dinner out of his bag: the beasts of the field take rest after their feed, and the birds of the air are at juke in the bushes: the lamb lies sucking while the ewe chews the cud, and the rabbit will scarce peep out of her burrow: the hare sits close asleep in her muse, while the dogs sit waiting for a bone from the trencher. In brief, for all I find of it, I thus conclude in it: I hold it the stomach's pleasure and the spirit's weariness. Farewell.

Midnight.

Now is the sun withdrawn into his bedchamber, the windows of heaven are shut up, and silence with darkness have made a walk over the whole earth, and time is tasked to work upon the worst actions: yet virtue being herself, is never weary of well doing, while the best spirits are studying for the body's rest: dreams and visions are the haunters of troubled spirits,

while nature is most comforted in the hope of the morning: the body now lies as a dead lump, while sleep, the pride of ease, lulls the senses of the slothful: the tired limbs now cease from their labours, and the studious brains give over their business: the bed is now an image of the grave, and the prayer of the faithful makes the pathway to Heaven: lovers now enclose a mutual content, while gracious minds have no wicked imaginations thieves, wolves and foxes now fall to their prey, but a strong lock and a good wit will aware much mischief: and he that trusteth in God will be safe from the Devil. Farewell.

The Conclusion.

And thus to conclude, for that it grows late, and a nod or two with an heavy eye makes me fear to prove a plain noddy, entreating your patience till to-morrow, and hoping you will censure mildly of this my fantastic labour, wishing I may hereafter please your senses with a better subject than this: I will in the mean time pray for your prosperity, and end with the English phrase, "God give you good night."

NICHOLAS BRETON, Fantastickes 1626

Be cheerful, sir:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest, IV. i. 147—158

GLOSSARY AND NOTES

Acarum vulgare. Common myrtle.
Aconitum. Monkshood.
Adamant. Loadstone, magnet.
Admirals, i.e. flagships.

Agaric. A purgative made from fungi.

Ale-conner, or Ale-taster, an offi

cer appointed to test the ale and bread in a parish or town. Shakespeare's father was made ale-conner of Stratford in 1557. Alleyn (Edward). 1566-1626. One of the greatest actors of the age. Founder of Dulwich College. Almain, i.e. German. Angel. Gold coin, about 10/-. Antic. Buffoon, contortionist, or grotesque pageant. Antic-woven. Fancifully embroidered.

Apuleian ears, i.e. asses' ears. Arcadian and Euphuized gentlewoman, i.e. talking the fashionable jargon of Lyly's Euphues or Sidney's Arcadia.

Argent. Money, silver.

Arimaspi, i.e. the Arimaspians, a mythical one-eyed people of Scythia always at war with the Gryphons (= Grips).

Aristolochia longa. The clematis. Armados, i.e. Spanish vessels. Arming doublets, i.e. military doublets.

Arts-vanishing. p. 132. McKerrow suggests "so skilfully that the art is concealed."

Assize. Standard measurement. Atomies. Atoms, motes. Augurate. To divine. Aurum potabile. A legendary medicine largely composed of gold. Possibly denotes in Elizabethan times a fashionable quack drug.

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Barred. See False dice. Bastinado. A thorough thrashing. Bastone. = bastinado.

Battle. ?Put into the common stock. Beagle, i.e. to smell out like a dog. Beaver. Visor. Piece of cloth across the mouth.

Beggar's bush. A notorious spot by the roadside between Huntingdon and Caxton where beggars kept rendezvous.

Berayed. Defiled.
Beseen. Dressed.

Besmeared. Befouled.
Bethlehem, i.e. the asylum of St
Mary of Bethlehem, now called
Bedlam.
Bird-eyed. Quick to see or imagine
danger.

Bit. Cant term for money.
Biting (of a bullet). It was custom-
ary to bite the bullet in order to
raise ridges upon it and so prevent
it falling out of the gun.
Bittorn, or Bittour. Bittern.
Black-jacks. Leather bottles.
Black ox trod upon my foot.
Proverbial expression meaning
"trouble came upon me.

Block. Mould for a hat.
Blue-coats, i.e. servants.

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Borders. Plaits or braids of hair worn round the forehead or temples. Boss. To cover with bosses or knobs. Bouge. To bilge, stave in the ship's bottom.

Bowdled. With feathers ruffled. Bridewell. A house of correction for women.

Bridges'. ?Bridget's, i.e. his wife's.
Britanny, i.e. Britain.
Broker, i.e. pawnbroker.
Bucklersbury. A street in London
chiefly inhabited by druggists.
Budge. Lambskin with the wool
dressed outwards, a very cheap fur.
Budget. Leathern bag.
Bug. Bogey.

Bum card. A raised or otherwise
marked card, used for cheating at
play.
Bush, i.e. ivy-bush outside a tavern.
A bunch or tuft of hair.

Calabrian flood. A contemporary pamphlet foretold the advent of floods from the appearance of certain stars in Calabria. Calicut. Town in India near Madras.

Calms. Frames.

Cambyses. The chief character in

an early Elizabethan tragedy, proverbial for rant.

Campanus, i.e. Campani, a 15th century Italian writer of Latin epigrams.

Campo. ?The playground.

Canaries. Spanish dance.

Cantharides. Spanish flies used for blistering.

Cap-case. Bag or wallet.

Caraways. Sweetmeats containing carraway seeds.

Carbonado. To cut open and slash with a knife for grilling. To grill. Carcanet. Necklace or ornamental collar.

Card. Guide, directory.

Carted, i.e. taken to Tyburn for execution.

Carted, i.e. exposed like a criminal to public ignominy.

Casual marts. ?Chance bargains.

Caterpillars, i.e. brokers, extortioners.

Caul, Net.
Chained. p. 10. The meaning of

P. 13. PA

the passage seems to be that the country gentleman made himself ridiculous at court by appearing with a gold chain, which was the mark of a steward. Challenge. Claim. Chamber. ?City treasury. Chandler's treasure. large store. Changeling. p. 102. Idiot, madman. The passage is apparently a reference to the shaving of madmen when in confinement. Charenton bridge, i.e. Charentonle-pont on the Maine. It has a famous bridge of ten arches. Chase. p. 257. Porthole at the

bow.

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