Fabian. Nay, I'll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport let me be boiled to death with melancholy.—IBID. We hope to make the circle of your eyes BEN JONSON. Now must I transport the courteous reader, who hath followed me along hitherto with admirable patience, and I hope with some pleasure, into the shop of a noted barber chirurgeon, alluded to in the preceding pages, as living over against the jolly mercer's in Eastcheap. He was called Martin Lather and sometimes Master Lather by those who would seem to hold him in some respect; and he had for an apprentice one Harry Daring—a sturdy boy of some fifteen years or so; of both of whom more anon. First to describe the shop, which was of no little repute among the citizens. On a projecting window there were divers notices to acquaint the passengers of what Master Lather was skilled in: some of these were in rhyme, for he did pride himself mightily on his scholarship. As for instance "Shaving done here By the day, month, or year." Or in another case "Beards trimmed neatly; And teeth extracted completely." |