Dem. If you sweare, dam me Faninus, or Crispinus,
Or to the law (Our kingdomes golden chaine)
To Poets dam me, or to Players dam me,
If I brand you, or you, tax you, scourge you:
I wonder then, that of fiue hundred: foure
Should all point with their fingers in one instant
At one and the same man?
Hor. Deare Faninus.
Dem. Come, you cannot excuse it.
Hor. Heare me, I can—
Dem. You must daube on thicke collours then to hide it.
Cris. We come like your Phisitions, to purge
Your sicke and daungerous minde of her disease.
Dem. In troth we doe, out of our loues we come,
And not reuenge, but if you strike vs still,
We must defend our reputations:
Our pens shall like our swords be alwayes sheath’d,
Vnlesse too much prouockt, Horace if then
They draw bloud of you, blame vs not, we are men:
Come, let thy Muse beare vp a smoother sayle,
Tis the easiest and the basest Arte to raile.
Hor. Deliuer me your hands, I loue you both,
As deare as my owne soule, prooue me, and when
I shall traduce you, make me the scorne of men.
Both. Enough, we are friends.