Tu. But to bite euery Motley-head vice by’th nose, you did it Ningle to play the Bug-beare Satyre, & make a Campe royall of fashion-mongers quake at your paper Bullets; you Nastie Tortois, you and your Itchy Poetry breake out like Christmas, but once a yeare, and then you keepe a Reuelling, & Araigning, & a Scratching of mens faces, as tho you were Tyber the long-tail’d Prince of Rattes, doe you?
Cri. Horace.
Sir Vaughan. Silence, pray let all vrdes be strangled, or held fast betweene your teeth.
Cri. Vnder controule of my dreade Soueraigne,
We are thy Iudges; thou that didst Arraigne,
Art now prepar’d for condemnation;
Should I but bid thy Muse stand to the Barre,
Thy selfe against her wouldst giue euidence:
For flat rebellion gainst the Sacred lawes
Of diuine Poesie: heerein most she mist,
Thy pride and scorne made her turne Saterist,
And not her loue to vertue (as thou Preachest)
Or should we minister strong pilles to thee:
What lumpes of hard and indigested stuffe,
Of bitter Satirisme, of Arrogance,
Of Selfe-loue, of Detraction, of a blacke
And stinking Insolence should we fetch vp?
But none of these, we giue thee what’s more fit,
With stinging nettles Crowne his stinging wit.
Tuc. Wel said my Poeticall huckster, now he’s in thy handling rate him, doe rate him well.
Hor. O I beseech your Maiesty, rather then thus to be netled, Ile ha my Satyres coate pull’d ouer mine eares, and bee turn’d out a the nine Muses Seruice.
Asin. And I too, let mee be put to my shiftes with myne Ningle.
Sir Vau. By Sesu so you shall M. Bubo; flea off this hairie skin M. Horace, so, so, so, vntrusse, vntrusse.
Tuc. His Poeticall wreath my dapper puncke-fetcher.
Hor. Ooh——