Aurelian. [Within.] Benito, where are you, sirrah?

Ben. Sirrah!  That my damned master should call a man of my extraordinary endowments, sirrah!  A man of my endowments?  Gad, I ask my own pardon, I mean a person of my endowments; for a man of my parts and talents, though he be but a valet de chambre, is a person; and let me tell my master—­Gad, I frown too, as like a person as any jack-gentleman of them all; but, gad, when I do not frown, I am an absolute beauty, whatever this glass says to the contrary; and, if this glass deny it, ’tis a base lying glass; so I’ll tell it to its face, and kick it down into the bargain.

Aur. [Within.] Why, Benito, how long shall we stay for you?

Ben. I come, sir.—­What the devil would he have?  But, by his favour, I’ll first survey my dancing and my singing. [He plays on his guitar, and dances and sings to the glass.] I think that was not amiss:  I think so.  Gad, I can dance [Lays down the guitar.] and play no longer, I am in such a rapture with myself.  What a villanous fate have I!  With all these excellencies, and a profound wit, and yet to be a serving-man!

  Enter AURELIAN and CAMILLO.

Aur. Why, you slave, you dog, you son of twenty fathers, am I to be served at this rate eternally?  A pox of your conceited coxcomb!

Cam. Nay, pr’ythee, Aurelian, be not angry.

Aur. You do not know this rogue, as I do, Camillo.  Now, by this guitar, and that great looking-glass, I am certain how he has spent his time.  He courts himself every morning in that glass at least an hour; there admires his own person, and his parts, and studies postures and grimaces, to make himself yet more ridiculous than he was born to be.

Cam. You wrong him, sure.

Aur. I do; for he is yet more fool than I can speak him.  I never sent him on a message, but he runs first to that glass, to practise how he may become his errand.  Speak, is this a lie, sirrah?

Ben. I confess, I have some kindness for the mirror.

Aur. The mirror! there’s a touch of his poetry too; he could not call it a glass.  Then the rogue has the impudence to make sonnets, as he calls them; and, which is greater impudence, he sings them too; there’s not a street in all Rome which he does not nightly disquiet with his villanous serenade:  with that guitar there, the younger brother of a cittern, he frights away the watch; and for his violin, it squeaks so lewdly, that Sir Tibert[1] in the gutter mistakes him for his mistress.  ’Tis a mere cat-call.

Cam. Is this true, Benito?

Ben. to Cam. [Aside.] My master, sir, may say his pleasure; I divert myself sometimes with hearing him.  Alas, good gentleman, ’tis not given to all persons to penetrate into men’s parts and qualities; but I look on you, sir, as a man of judgment, and therefore you shall hear me play and sing. [He takes up the guitar, and begins.