Lamp. Don’t talk so much, or else I’ll bring a gag.
Kott. I won’t talk, only do not kill me, please.
Lamp. Let him down, boys.
Metr. No, leather him till sunset.
Lamp. Why, he’s as mottled as a water-snake.
Metr. Well, when he’s done his reading, good or bad,
Give him a trifle more, say twenty strokes.
Kott. Yah!
Metr. I’ll go home and get a pair of fetters.
Our Lady Muses, whom he scorned, shall see