We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman, Hercules.
(Reads) The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
That is an old decide; and it was play’d
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
(Reads) The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.
That is some satire, keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.