Qua. Signior Laverdure, by the heart of an honest man, this Jebusite—this, confusion to him! this worse than I dare to name—abuseth thee most incomprehensibly. Is this your protest of most obsequious vassalage? Protest to strain your utmost sum, your most—— 120
Lam. So Phœbus warm my brain, I’ll rhyme thee dead.
Look for the satire: if all the sour juice
Of a tart brain can souse thy estimate,
I’ll pickle thee.
Qua. Ha! he mount Chirall[437] on the wings of fame!
A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse![438]
Look thee, I speak play-scraps. Bidet, I’ll down,
Sing, sing, or stay, we’ll quaff, or anything.
Rivo,[439] Saint Mark, let’s talk as loose as air;
Unwind youth’s colours, display ourselves, 130
So that yon envy-starvèd cur may yelp
And spend his chaps at our fantasticness.
Sim. O Lord, Quadratus!
Qua. Away, idolater! Why, you Don Kynsader![440]
Thou canker-eaten rusty cur! thou snaffle
To freer spirits!
Think’st thou, a libertine, an ungyved breast,
Scorns not the shackles of thy envious clogs?
You will traduce us unto public scorn?
Lam. By this hand I will. 140
Qua. A foutra for thy hand, thy heart, thy brain!
Thy hate, thy malice, envy, grinning spite!
Shall a free-born, that holds antipathy——
Lam. Antipathy!
Qua. Ay, antipathy, a native hate
Unto the curse of man, bare-pated servitude,
Quake at the frowns of a ragg’d satirist—
A scrubbing railer, whose coarse, harden’d fortune,
Grating his hide, galling his starvèd ribs,
Sits howling at desert’s more battle fate[441]—
Who out of dungeon of his black despairs, 150
Scowls at the fortune of the fairer merit.