Bebearded

Enter TOBIAS⸺in Petticoats. Tob. O dear, dear me, what a pickle am I in—bepetticoated—bewigged—bebearded—and belaughed at by the whole houſe⸺I ſhall die with the ſweating ſickneſs—in four and twenty hours I ſhall be dry as a ſqueezed ſpunge—And all this do I endure for the ſake of that dear hard-hearted creature—ſhe’ll break my heart (wiping his eyes)—if I could drive her out of my thoughts, this moment would I quit this unnatural houſe—Oh, hoh (blubbering).

Then came the soldiery, bepainted, bebearded, bewhiskered, bewigged, and bedizened in all forms of antiquated habiliments, and all fashions and tastes of materials;

Eight years ago or so, the alternative paper I was working for sent me out to review a couple of folk-noise-psych-indie-beardie-weirdie bands. I had a dreadful night. The bands were bad enough — “fumbling,” I scratched in my notebook, “infantile” — but what really did me in was the audience. Instead of baying for the blood of these lightweights, as in the Darwinian days of old, the gathered young people — behatted, bebearded, besmiling — obliged them with patters of validating applause.