Chris. It is the holy cause, and I must quarrel.
Thou son of parchment, got between the standish
And the stiff buckram-bag! thou, that may'st call
The pen thy father and the ink thy mother,
The sand thy brother and the wax thy sister,
And the good pillory thy cousin [once] remov'd—
I say, learn reverence to thy betters.
Bag. Set up an hour-glass; he'll go on, until
The last sand make his period.
Chris. 'Tis my custom;
I do approve the calumny: the words
I do acknowledge, but not the disgrace,
Thou vile ingrosser of unchristian deeds.
Bag. Good Israel Inspiration, hold your tongue;
It makes far better music when you nose
Sternhold's or Wisdom's metre.[196]
Catch. By your leave,
You fall on me now, brother.
Rhyme. 'Tis by cause
You are too forward, brother Catchmey.
Catch. I too forward!
Rhyme. Yes, I say you are too forward—
By the length of your London-measure beard.
Catch. Thou never couldst entreat that respite yet
Of thy dishonesty as to get one hair
To testify thy age.
Bag. I'm beardless too;
I hope you think not so of me[197].