Brain. Morbleu! will you not give me leave? I am full of Phillis. [Sings.] My Phillis—
Limb. Nay, I confess, Phillis is a very pretty name.
Brain. Diable! Now I will not sing, to spite you. By the world, you are not worthy of it. Well, I have a gentleman's fortune; I have courage, and make no inconsiderable figure in the world: yet I would quit my pretensions to all these, rather than not be author of this sonnet, which your rudeness has irrevocably lost.
Limb. Some foolish French quelque chose, I warrant you.
Brain. Quelque chose! O ignorance, in supreme perfection! he means a kek shose[9].
Limb. Why a kek shoes let it be then! and a kek shoes for your song.
Brain. I give to the devil such a judge. Well, were I to be born again, I would as soon be the elephant, as a wit; he's less a monster in this age of malice. I could burn my sonnet, out of rage.
062 Limb. You may use your pleasure with your own.
Wood. His friends would not suffer him: Virgil was not permitted to burn his Æneids.
Brain. Dear sir, I'll not die ungrateful for your approbation. [Aside to Wood.] You see this fellow? he is an ass already; he has a handsome mistress, and you shall make an ox of him ere long.