’Tis easy for the doctor to compound
His nauseous simples for a sick man’s health;
But let him swallow them, for his disease,
Without wry faces.  Ah! the tug is there. 
Show me philosophy in rags, in want,
Sick of a fever, with a back like mine,
Creeping to wisdom on these legs, and I
Will drink its comforts.  Out! away with you! 
There’s no such thing as real philosophy!
          
                                        [Throws down the book.]

    [Enter PEPE.]

Here is a sage who’ll teach a courtier
The laws of etiquette, a statesman rule,
A soldier discipline, a poet verse,
And each mechanic his distinctive trade;
Yet bring him to his motley, and how wide
He shoots from reason!  We can understand
All business but our own, and thrust advice
In every gaping cranny of the world;
While habit shapes us to our own dull work,
And reason nods above his proper task. 
Just so philosophy would rectify
All things abroad, and be a jade at home. 
Pepe, what think you of the Emperor’s aim
Towards Hungary?

PEPE.  A most unwise design;
For mark, my lord—­

LANCIOTTO.  Why, there! the fact cries out. 
Here’s motley thinking for a diadem!—­
Ay, and more wisely in his own regard.

  PEPE.  You flout me, cousin.

LANCIOTTO.  Have you aught that’s new?—­
Some witty trifle, some absurd conceit?

  PEPE.  Troth, no.

LANCIOTTO.  Why not give up the Emperor,
And bend your wisdom on your duties, Pepe?

PEPE.  Because the Emperor has more need of wisdom
Than the most barren fool of wit.

LANCIOTTO.  Well said! 
Mere habit brings the fool back to his art. 
This jester is a rare philosopher. 
Teach me philosophy, good fool.

PEPE.  No need. 
You’ll get a teacher when you take a wife. 
If she do not instruct you in more arts
Than Aristotle ever thought upon,
The good old race of woman has declined
Into a sort of male stupidity. 
I had a sweetheart once, she lectured grandly;
No matter on what subject she might hit,
T was all the same, she could talk and she would. 
She had no silly modesty; she dashed
Straight in the teeth of any argument,
And talked you deaf, dumb, blind.  Whatever struck
Upon her ear, by some machinery,
Set her tongue wagging.  Thank the Lord, she died!—­
Dropped in the middle of a fierce harangue,
Like a spent horse.  It was an even thing,
Whether she talked herself or me to death. 
The latest sign of life was in her tongue;
It wagged till sundown, like a serpent’s tail,
Long after all the rest of her was cold. 
Alas! poor Zippa!

  LANCIOTTO.  Were you married, fool?

PEPE.  Married!  Have I the scars upon me?  No;
I fell in love; and that was bad enough,
And far enough for a mere fool to go. 
Married! why, marriage is love’s purgatory,
Without a heaven beyond.