A plie from those pale lips corrugate but now?
Fust. Lost count me, yet not as ye lean to surmise.
First Friend. To surmise? to establish! Unbury that brow!
Look up, that thy judge may read clear in thine eyes!
Second Friend. By your leave, Brother Barnabite! Mine to advise!
—Who arraign thee, John Fust! What was bruited erewhile
Now bellows through Mayence. All cry—thou hast trucked
Salvation away for lust's solace! Thy smile
Takes its hue from hell's smoulder!
Fust. Too certain! I sucked