Rhyme. Peace, inkhorn; there's no music in thy tongue.
Catch. Thou and thy rhyme lie both: the tongue of man
Is born to music naturally.
Rhyme. Thou thing,
Thy belly looks like to some strutting hill,
O'ershadow'd with thy rough beard like a wood.
Chris. Or like a larger jug, that some men call
A Bellarmine, but we a Conscience;
Whereon the lewder hand of pagan workman
Over the proud ambitious head hath carv'd
An idol large with beard episcopal,
Making the vessel look like tyrant Eglon.
Catch. Profane again, Sir Christopher, I take it.
Chris. Must I be strong again? Thou human beast,
Who'rt only eloquent when thou say'st nothing,
And appear'st handsome while thou hid'st thyself,
I'm holy, 'cause profane.
And. Courageous rascals!
Brave spirits! soldiers in their days, I warrant!
Bag. Born in the field, I do assure your worship.
This quarrelling is meat and drink to them.
Bag. Nay, then I do defy thee thus.