Hor. This is excellent, all will come out now.
Dica. That same Horace me thinkes has the most vngodly face, by my Fan; it lookes for all the world, like a rotten russet Apple, when tis bruiz’d: Its better then a spoonefull of Sinamon water next my heart, for me to heare him speake; hee soundes it so i’ th nose, and talkes and randes for all the world, like the poore fellow vnder Ludgate: oh fye vpon him.
Min. By my troth sweet Ladies, it’s Cake and pudding to me, to see his face make faces, when hee reades his Songs and Sonnets.
Hor. Ile face some of you for this, when you shall not budge.
Tuc. Its the stinckingst dung-farmer—foh vpon him.
Sir Vau. Foh? oundes you make him vrse than olde herring: foh? by Sesu I thinke he’s as tidy, and as tall a Poet as euer drew out a long verse.
Tuc. The best verse that euer I knew him hacke out, was his white necke-verse: noble Ap Rees thou wouldst scorne to laye thy lippes to his commendations, and thou smeldst him out as I doe, hee calles thee the burning Knight of the Salamander.
Sir Vaugh. Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but Peter is neuer burnt: howe now? so, goe too now.
Tucca. And sayes because thou Clipst the Kinges English.