No music this Mar|tes/Tu|s|day. Leecture and comedy.

The ro|o|t of suf|fer-ing mo|st de|fi|ne|t|ly st|em|s from the nin|th sp|here. I|f one wan|ts to con|que|r in|ner de|mon|s t|hen it be|g|in|s by not fe|ed-ing the big|g|est de|mon o|f all, for all ot|he|r de|mon|s in|si|de ye are but ex|ten|s|ions or ex|press|ions f|rom the one. W|hat is i|t t|hat it is be-ing fed? Ha|ve you sp|ill|ed wi|ne? Ha|ve yo|u no|t been war|ned to not sp|ill one dr|op? But spil't ye di|d and n|ow yo|u have ex|per|ie|nc|ed su|ff|er-ing for that act|i|on. That act|i|on, the fe|ed-ing, is no ot|her th-ing but f|or|ni|cat-ing.

Why ha|ve yo|u no|t pr|act|iced White Tantra?

Dark|ness is ou|r or|i|gen. Dark|ness is my Mas|ter. It hold|s me ti|gh|t in lo|v-ing emb|race d|ur-ing the co|ld front|s of win|ter st|or|ms. Eve|n w|hen my bo|dy is no m|or|e, Dark|ness sh|all re-ma|in and I sh|all be fo|u|nd emb|rac-ed by my de|vine lo|v-er; T|ruth. T|ruth is fo|u|nd in the dark, then f|or|ms ap|p|ear|s, and ye have light t|hen af|t-er.

Af|t-er t|ruth is in|si|de the per|spec|ti|ve, it is now in the f|or|m of a new li-g|ht, and th|us in|st|ant-ly be|com-es vul|ner|able to be sec|lud-ed wi|th|in the sq|u|are de|fin|it-ion|s. The se|con|d li|g|ht is now a man|ifist|at|ion of the fir|st wh|i|ch is the dark, be|f|or|e the li|g|ht.

Hive a Laugh:

Print source: Hic et ubique, or, The humors of Dublin a comedy, acted privately, with general applause / written by Richard Head, Gent.
Head, Richard, 1637?-1686?
London: Printed by R.D. for the Author, 1663.
The Royal Honey

Yo|u Ca|n Eit|her Keep Re|ad-ing A|long Her|e S|cene B|y S|cene A|t My Ow|n S|pe|ed OR ch|e|ck the ho|n|ey ab|ov|e to a se|cure web|si|te wi|th th|e p|lay in que|st|i|on.

Act 1 Scene 6

Enter Cassandra sola.

CAss.

Whither shall I fly for refuge? what Sanctuary can protect me from this pursuing shadow, which like some ill Genius still follows me, I fear, to the utter ruine of my rest? My antipathy against him is so strong, that rather than admit of his love, I cu'd be content to court some hedge-born slave, whose raggs and rudeness render him a fit companion for swine and dunghils. And yet I know not why, love seldome gives a rea∣son for what a does. Methinks his embraces are like the cir∣cling of Snakes, his voice like the howling of a Wolf, and his smiles like the grinning of a Monkey.

(Enter Kiltory.)

Kilt.

Well overtaken Lady. (she offers to go) Nay, be not so hard harted as to leave me thus, who loves you dearly.

Cass.

Pray forbear Sir, the bias of my thoughts run other∣waies; therefore give me leave to enjoy the benefit of my freedom, which shu'd I loose (but as yet it lies in my power to preserve) I shu'd account my self most miserable.

Kilt.

You shall not loose, but enlarge it; for you shall enjoy a man, the bounty of whose affections shall dayly multiply your happiness. I'le be your Guardian, and defend you from every storm of aproaching injury.

Cass.

My fears—

Kilt.

What?

Cass.

Nothing, if you and love ne're come near me.

Kilt.

Wu'd you be so uncharitable as to live in hate?

Cass.

No, by my Virgin-whiteness, I've charity for all men; but was never yet fond enough to give away my self.

Kilt.

'Tis common to your sex.

Cass.

And may be proper for me hereafter, but as yet I could never see that man I cu'd love so well.

Kilt.

Is there no hopes for me then?

Cass.

Truly Sir, I think none.

Kiltor.

Why then did you give me hopes, when you told me you wu'd leave me to the test of time?

Cass.

That was but to stop your importunity.

Kilt.

How long will you leave me to that re•…?

Cass.

For ever.

Kilt.

Say you so? — This is not the way (aside) — come Lady, I will —

Cass.

Do what Sir?

Kilt.

Make you my Bride.

Cass.

But I say, you shall never.

Kilt.

And to begin I must —

Cass.

Must what?

Kilt.

Kisse you, Lady.

Cass.

Pray forbear Sir.

Kilt.

Introath I must.

Cass.

Truly you must not, (kisses her) fie Sir, I was never ac∣quainted with such rudenesse and rumbling before—If you'l not be civil, Ile cry out, and make your credit suspected. Pray Sir believe me, I swear I cannot love you.
Kilt.

I do — and know I am not such a fool, to be pas∣sionate in love with a Statue: I value not your disdain; and do not think your immaginary beauty is able to make me pule, whine, and exclaim against Heaven. Alas, you have no Virtue, but what mans fond conceit and feigned praises invests you withall; I confesse y'ave all subtilty enough, by which you maintain and keep up your good estimation among men: The height of your wisdom consists in I, and No, and you must be accounted solid and prudent, though you cannot speak three words of sense, provided y'ave obtained the gift of Silence; and you must be continent by all means too, because y'ave the Art of concealing your deeds of dark∣nesse; so temperate, as if your bodies required not eating; forbearing in the presence of men, whetting your stomacks upon their appetites, to feed Cormorant-like in private. Wine is inflaming, and flies up into the face; and there∣fore y'are only for sips, till you come among your Gos-sips, and then you can drink pottle after pottle, with a small Cawdle or two, that contain gallons a piece; and being elevated, you talk of things that do'nt concern ye: Having overgorg'd your selves, you pretend you are not well, and so go to bed. Lastly, so cleanly, that you wu'd perswade us you evacuate no excrements.

Cass.

I can endure no longer: farewell Sir, this discourse wu'd have better suited with a Bear-garden, exclaiming a∣gainst some Apple-woman for not selling twelve a penny.

Kilt.

Oh! have I toucht your Copy-hold? now am I suffi∣ciently reveng'd; I must study to forget her: yet notwith∣standing I have so much inveigh'd against her sex, my heart spake otherwise; questionlesse Woman is a most divine Crea∣ture, and therefore worthily deserves to be beloved: but Ile rest a while,

Ʋntil Experience tels me I have found
One free to love, and is with beauty crown'd.

Enter Patrick crying.

Patr.

Fuillilaloo!

Kiltor.

How now Sirrah?

Patrick.

The donny fellow make buse for my Moister.

Kilt.

What Fellow?

Patrick.

He was no Sougare nor Musketteer, but a greyshy guddy hang of a Peek-man.

Kilt.

And what of him?

Patr.

Fuy by St. Patrick agra, he put de suckation upon my weef. I will tell dee tale if thou wilt Gluntamee. I came in wid my pishfork upon my back, thou know'st, and I see a greyshy guddy hang upon my weef, and I did creep in like a michear, to the wattles upon de loft abow thou know'st, and there I did see putting the great suck upon my weef, as if thy own shelf was there Moister; and because I wu'd make haste, I fell down upon 'em, and leek to have more than half break my neck; then wid my pishfork I clap him upon de Narsum, and I did make sharge for him in the Kings name, thou know'st, to stay dere til I fetch the Cunt—stable; but before I came, this chverech craveRauge make run away for himshelf: and looky there Moister.

Kilt.

Why what wudst have me doo?

Patr.

Fea•een take my weef to thine own shelf, for Patrick will not lie with his weef Shuane again.

Kilt.

Why wudst a have me lie with her?

Patr.

Yea feat if thou wilt.

Kilt.

Oh Sir, 'tis so great a favour, I shall never be able to make your brogues a requital. However take this

(kicks him)
in part of satisfaction; nay, this

(kicks him again)
too, that I may come out of your debt the sooner.

Finis Actus Primi.

Jk here is some tu|nes for yo|ur bro|k|en so|u|l.
Ha|ve f-un, act al|on|g. s|c|h|ool you|r|sel|f

Cheer
yayogerardo@protonmail.com

Hive A Laugh: Dick Heads Hic Et Ubique, or, The Humors of Dublin a comedy, acted privately, with general applause | Act 1 Scene 6

Hive a Laugh:

Act 1 Scene 6

Finis Actus Primi.