Hor. Honour’d Capten.
Tuc. Art not famous enough yet, my mad Horastratus, for killing a Player, but thou must eate men aliue? thy friends? Sirra wilde-man, thy Patrons? thou Anthropophagite, thy Mecænasses?
Hor. Captaine, I’m sorry that you lay this wrong
So close vnto your heart: deare Captaine thinke
I writ out of hot bloud, which (now) being colde,
I could be pleas’d (to please you) to quaffe downe,
The poyson’d Inke, in which I dipt your name.
Tuc. Saist thou so, my Palinodicall rimester?
Hor. Hence forth Ile rather breath out Solœcismes
(To doe which Ide as soone speake blasphemie)
Than with my tongue or pen to wound your worth,
Beleeue it noble Capten; it to me
Shall be a Crowne, to crowne your actes with praize,
Out of your hate, your loue Ile stronglie raize.
Tuc. I know now th’ast a number of these Quiddits to binde men to’th peace: tis thy fashion to flirt Inke in euerie mans face; and then to craule into his bosome, and damne thy selfe to wip’t off agen: yet to giue out abroad, that hee was glad to come to composition with thee: I know Monsieur Machiauell tis one a thy rules; My long-heel’d Troglodite, I could make thine eares burne now, by dropping into them, all those hot oathes, to which, thy selfe gau’st voluntarie fire, (whē thou wast the man in the Moone) that thou wouldst neuer squib out any new Salt-peter Iestes against honest Tucca, nor those Maligo-tasters, his Poetasters; I could Cinocephalus, but I will not, yet thou knowst thou hast broke those oathes in print, my excellent infernall.
Tuc. Nay I smell what breath is to come from thee, thy answer is, that there’s no faith to be helde with Heritickes & Infidels, and therfore thou swear’st anie thing: but come, lend mee thy hand, thou and I hence forth will bee Alexander and Lodwicke, the Gemini: sworne brothers, thou shalt be Perithous and Tucca Theseus; but Ile leaue thee i’th lurch, when thou mak’st thy voiage into hell: till then, Thine-assuredly.
Hor. With all my soule deare Capten.