As some churl closets up this rare chalice." Go, run
Thy race now, Fust's child! High, O Printing, and holy
Thy mission! These types, see, I chop and I change
Till the words, every letter, a pageful, not slowly
Yet surely lies fixed: last of all, I arrange
A paper beneath, stamp it, loosen it!
First Friend. Strange!
Second Friend. How simple exceedingly!
Fust. Bustle, my Schœffer!