(i. ix. 28.)
When the host spontaneously breaks out in acclamation, he feels it is over much, and is more irritated than pleased:
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
I’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-faced soothing!
When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk,
Let him be made a coverture for the wars!
No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d
My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch,—