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 Matthew. Oh! it's your only fine humour, sir. Yourtrue melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I ammelancholy myself, divers times, sir; and then do I nomore but take pen and paper presently, and overflowyou half a score or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.
 Stephen. Truly, sir, and I love such things out ofmeasure.
 Matthew. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of mystudy: it’s at your service.
 Stephen. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold, I warrantyou. Have you a stool there, to be melancholy upon?
BEN JONSON: Every Man in his Humour.
A. 3. S. 1. 


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