Some twelve gentlemen of us, Sir--apostles of the blind
archer, Love--owning no divinity but almighty beauty--no faith, no
hope, no charity, but those which are kindled at her eyes.
Wal. Saints! what's all this?
Page. Ah, Sir! none but countrymen swear by the saints nowadays:
no oaths but allegorical ones, Sir, at the high table; as thus,--'By
the sleeve of beauty, Madam;' or again, 'By Love his martyrdoms, Sir
Count;' or to a potentate, 'As Jove's imperial mercy shall hear my
vows, High Mightiness.'
Wal. Where did the evil one set you on finding all this heathenry?
Page. Oh, we are all barristers of Love's court, Sir; we have
Ovid's gay science conned, Sir, ad unguentum, as they say, out of
the French book.
Wal. So? There are those come from Rome then will whip you and
Ovid out with the same rod which the dandies of Provence felt lately
to their sorrow. Oh, what blinkards are we gentlemen, to train any
dumb beasts more carefully than we do Christians! that a man shall
keep his dog-breakers, and his horse-breakers, and his hawk-
breakers, and never hire him a boy-breaker or two! that we should
live without a qualm at dangling such a flock of mimicking
parroquets at our heels a while, and then, when they are well
infected, well perfumed with the wind of our vices, dropping them
off, as tadpoles do their tails, joint by joint into the mud! to
strain at such gnats as an ill-mouthed colt or a riotous puppy, and
swallow that camel of camels, a page!
Page.
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