Cart. Why, what Mischief was there?

Sol. As one was drawing a Steel Cross-bow, it broke, and a Splinter of it hit me in the Forehead.

Cart. You have got a Scar upon your Cheek that is above a Span long.

Sol. I got this Wound in a Battel.

Cart. In what Battel, in the Field?

Sol. No, but in a Quarrel that arose at Dice.

Cart. And I see I can’t tell what Sort of Rubies on your Chin.

Sol. O they are nothing.

Cart. I suspect that you have had the Pox.

Sol. You guess very right, Brother.  It was the third Time I had that Distemper, and it had like to have cost me my Life.

Cart. But how came it, that you walk so stooping, as if you were ninety Years of Age; or like a Mower, or as if your Back was broke?

Sol. The Disease has contracted my Nerves to that Degree.

Cart. In Truth you have undergone a wonderful Metamorphosis:  Formerly you were a Horseman, and now of a Centaur, you are become a Kind of semi-reptile Animal.

Sol. This is the Fortune of War.

Cart. Nay, ’tis the Madness of your own Mind.  But what Spoils will you carry Home to your Wife and Children?  The Leprosy? for that Scab is only a Species of the Leprosy; and it is only not accounted so, because it is the Disease in Fashion, and especially among Noblemen:  And for this very Reason, it should be the more carefully avoided.  And now you will infect with it those that ought to be the dearest to you of any in the World, and you yourself will all your Days carry about a rotten Carcass.

Sol. Prithee, Brother, have done chiding me.  I have enough upon me without Chiding.

Cart. As to those Calamities, I have hitherto taken Notice of, they only relate to the Body:  But what a Sort of a Soul do you bring back with you?  How putrid and ulcered?  With how many Wounds is that sore?

Sol. Just as clean as a Paris common Shore in Maburtus’s Road, or a common House of Office.

Cart. I am afraid it stinks worse in the Nostrils of God and his Angels.

Sol. Well, but I have had Chiding enough, now speak to the Matter, of something to bear my Charges.

Cart. I have nothing to give you, but I’ll go and try what the Prior will do.

Sol. If any Thing was to be given, your Hands would be ready to receive it; but now there are a great many Difficulties in the Way, when something is to be paid.

Cart. As to what others do, let them look to that, I have no Hands, either to give or take Money:  But we’ll talk more of these Matters after Dinner, for it is now Time to sit down at Table.

PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy sets forth the Disposition and Nature of a Liar, who seems to be born to lie for crafty Gain.  A Liar is a Thief.  Gain got by Lying, is baser than that which is got by a Tax upon Urine.  An egregious Method of deceiving is laid open.  Cheating Tradesmen live better than honest ones.

PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS.