Dio. Thou knowst she is a Prophetess.
Max. A small one,
And as small profit to be hop'd for by her.
Dio. Thou art the strangest man; how does thy hurt?
The Boar came near you, Sir.
Max. A scratch, a scratch.
Dio. It akes and troubles thee, and that makes thee angry.
Max. Not at the pain, but at the practice, Uncle,
The butcherly, base custom of our lives now;
Had a brave enemies Sword drawn so much from me,
Or danger met me in the head o'th' Army,
To have blush'd thus in my blood, had been mine honour.
But to live base, like Swine-herds, and believe too,
To be fool'd out with tales, and old wives dreams,
Dreams, when they are drunk.
Dio. Certain you much mistake her.
Max. Mistake her? hang her; to be made her Purveyors,
To feed her old Chaps; to provide her daily,
And bring in Feasts while she sits farting at us,
And blowing out her Prophecies at both ends.
Dio. Prithee be wise; Dost thou think, Maximinian,
So great a reverence, and so stai'd a knowledge—
Max. Sur-reverence, you would say; what truth? what knowledg?
What any thing but eating is good in her?
'Twould make a fool prophesie to be fed continually;
What do you get? your labour and your danger;
Whilst she sits bathing in her larded fury,
Inspir'd with full deep Cups, who cannot prophesie?
A Tinker, out of Ale, will give Predictions;
But who believes?