Over. I do not feel it, I do not think of it, it is a thing without me: Adam, thou art above these batteries, these contumelies. In te manca ruit fortuna, as thy friend Horace says; thou art one, Quem neque pauperies, neque mors, neque vincula, terrent. And therefore, as another friend of thine says, I think it be thy friend Persius, Non te quæsiveris extra.
Quar. What’s here! a stoic in the stocks? the fool is turn’d philosopher.
Busy. Friend, I will leave to communicate my spirit with you, if I hear any more of those superstitious relics, those lists of Latin, the very rags of Rome, and patches of popery.
Waspe. Nay, an you begin to quarrel, gentlemen, I’ll leave you. I have paid for quarrelling too lately: look you, a device, but shifting in a hand for a foot. God be wi’ you.
[Slips out his hand.
Busy. Wilt thou then leave thy brethren in tribulation?
Waspe. For this once, sir.
[Exit, running.
Busy. Thou art a halting neutral; stay him there, stop him, that will not endure the heat of persecution.
Bri. How now, what’s the matter?