Fred. He can compel 'em.
John. With what? can he
Tye squibs in their tails, and fire the truth out?
Or make 'em eat a bawling Puritan,
Whose sanctified zeal shall rumble like an Earth-quake?
Fred. With Spells man.
John. I with spoons as soon, dost thou think
The Devil such an Asse as people make him?
Such a poor coxcomb? such a penny foot-post?
Compel'd with cross and pile to run of errands?
With Asteroth, and Behemoth, and Belfagor?
Why should he shake at sounds, that lives in a smiths forge?
Or if he do—
Fred. Without all doubt he do's John.
John. Why should not Bilbo raise him, or a pair of bullyons,
They go as big as any? or an unshod Car,
When he goes tumble, tumble o're the stones,
Like Anacreons drunken verses, [make us tremble?]
These make as fell a noise; me thinks the colick
Well handled, and fed with small beer—
Fred. 'Tis the vertue—
John. The vertue? nay, and goodness fetch him up once,
H'as lost a friend of me; the wise old Gentleman
Knows when, and how; I'le lay this hand to two pence,
Let all the Conjurers in Christendom,
With all their spells, and vertues call upon him,
And I but think upon a wench, and follow it,
He shall be sooner mine than theirs; where's vertue?
Fred. Thou art the most sufficient, (I'le say for thee)
Not to believe a thing—
John. O Sir, slow credit
Is the best child of knowl[e]dge; I'le go with ye,
And if he can do any thing, I'le think
As you would have me.