Hor. Peace, tread softly, hyde my Papers; who’s this so early? Some of my rookes, some of my guls?
Cris. Horrace, Flaccus.
Hor. Who’s there? stray, treade softly: Wat Terill on my life: who’s there? my gowne sweete roague, so, come vp, come in.
Enter Crispinus and Demetrius.
Cris. God morrow Horrace.
Hor. O, God saue you gallants.
Cris. Asinius Bubo well met.
Asin. Nay, I hope so Crispinus, yet I was sicke a quarter of a yeare a goe of a vehement great tooth-atch: a pox ont, it bit me vilye, as God sa me la I knew twas you by your knocking so soone as I saw you; Demetrius Fannius, wil you take a whiffe this morning? I haue tickling geare now, heer’s that will play with your nose, and a pype of mine owne scowring too.
Dem. I, and a Hodgshead too of your owne, but that will neuer be scowred cleane I feare.
Asin. I burnt my pype yesternight, and twas neuer vsde since, if you will tis at your seruice gallants, and Tobacco too, tis right pudding I can tell you; a Lady or two, tooke a pype full or two at my hands, and praizde it for the Heauens, shall I fill Flannius?