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_ ACT II - SCENE IX
SCENE IX.--TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA, Parson.
Par.
Happy's the wooing that's not long a doing;
For, if I guess right, Tom Thumb this night
Shall give a being to a new Tom Thumb.
Thumb.
It shall be my endeavour so to do.
Hunc.
Oh! fie upon you, sir, you make me blush.
Thumb.
It is the virgin's sign, and suits you well:
[1] I know not where, nor how, nor what I am;
[2] I am so transported, I have lost myself.
[Footnote 1:
Nor know I whether
What am I, who, or where.
---Busiris.
I was I know not what, and am I know not how.
---Gloriana.]
[Footnote 2:
To understand sufficiently the beauty of this passage, it
will be necessary that we comprehend every man to contain two
selfs. I shall not attempt to prove this from philosophy,
which the poets make so plainly evident.
One runs away from the other:
----Let me demand your majesty,
Why fly you from yourself? --_Duke of Guise_.
In a second, one self is a guardian to the other:
Leave me the care of me. --_Conquest of Granada_.
Again:
Myself am to myself less near. --_Ibid_.
In the same, the first self is proud of the second:
I myself am proud of me. --State of Innocence.
In a third, distrustful of him:
Fain I would tell, but whisper it in my ear,
That none besides might hear, nay, not myself.
--Earl of Essex.
In a fourth, honours him:
I honour Rome,
And honour too myself.
--Sophonisba.
In a fifth, at variance with him:
Leave me not thus at variance with myself. --Busiris.
Again, in a sixth:
I find myself divided from myself. --Medea.
She seemed the sad effigies of herself. --Banks.
Assist me, Zulema, if thou would'st be
The friend thou seem'st, assist me against me.
--Albion Queens.
From all which it appears that there are two selfs; and
therefore Tom Thumb's losing himself is no such solecism
as it hath been represented by men rather ambitious of
criticising than qualified to criticise.]
Hunc.
Forbid it, all ye stars, for you're so small.
That were you lost, you'd find yourself no more.
So the unhappy sempstress once, they say,
Her needle in a pottle, lost, of hay;
In vain she look'd, and look'd, and made her moan,
For ah, the needle was forever gone.
Par.
Long may they live, and love, and propagate,
Till the whole land be peopled with Tom Thumbs!
[1] So, when the Cheshire cheese a maggot breeds,
Another and another still succeeds:
By thousands and ten thousands they increase,
Till one continued maggot fills the rotten cheese.
[Footnote 1:
Mr F---- imagines this parson to have been a Welsh one
from his simile.] _
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