Lus. May it be possible such men should breathe,
To vex the terms so much?
Ven. 'Tis food to some, my lord. There are old men at the present, that are so poisoned with the affectation of law-words (having had many suits canvassed), that their common talk is nothing but Barbary Latin. They cannot so much as pray but in law, that their sins may be removed with a writ of error, and their souls fetched up to Heaven with a sasarara.[223]
Lus. It seems most strange to me;
Yet all the world meets round in the same bent:
Where the heart's set, there goes the tongue's consent.
How dost apply thy studies, fellow?
Ven. Study? why, to think how a great rich man lies a-dying, and a poor cobbler tolls the bell for him. How he cannot depart the world, and see the great chest stand before him; when he lies speechless, how he will point you readily to all the boxes; and when he is past all memory, as the gossips guess, then thinks he of forfeitures and obligations; nay, when to all men's hearings he whurls and rattles in the throat, he's busy threatening his poor tenants. And this would last me now some seven years' thinking, or thereabouts. But I have a conceit a-coming in picture upon this; I draw it myself, which, i' faith, la, I'll present to your honour; you shall not choose but like it, for your honour shall give me nothing for it.
Lus. Nay, you mistake me, then,
For I am published bountiful enough.
Let's taste of your conceit.
Ven. In picture, my Lord?
Lus. Ay, in picture.
Ven. Marry, this it is—"A usuring father to be boiling in hell, and his son and heir with a whore dancing over him."
Hip. He has pared him to the quick. [Aside.
Lus. The conceit's pretty, i' faith;
But, take't upon my life, 'twill ne'er be liked.