Ho. Sir Vaughan, noble Capten, Gentlemen,
Crispinus, deare Demetrius ô redeeme me,
Out of this infamous—— by God by Iesu——
Cri. Nay, sweare not so good Horace, now these Ladies,
Are made your executioners: prepare,
To suffer like a gallant, not a coward;
Ile trie t’ vnloose, their hands, impossible.
Nay, womens vengeance are implacable.
Hor. Why, would you make me thus the ball of scorne?
Tuc. Ile tell thee why, because th’ ast entred Actions of assault and battery, against a companie of honourable and worshipfull Fathers of the law: you wrangling rascall, law is one of the pillers ath land, and if thou beest bound too’t (as I hope thou shalt bee) thou’t prooue a skip-Jacke, thou’t be whipt. Ile tell thee why, because thy sputtering chappes yelpe, that Arrogance, and Impudence, and Ignoraunce, are the essentiall parts of a Courtier.
Sir Vau. You remember Horace, they will puncke, and pincke, and pumpe you, and they catch you by the coxcombe: on I pray, one lash, a little more.
Tuc. Ile tell thee why, because thou cryest ptrooh at worshipfull Cittizens, and cal’st them Flat-caps, Cuckolds, and banckrupts, and modest and vertuous wiues punckes & cockatrices. Ile tell thee why, because th’ast arraigned two Poets against all lawe and conscience; and not content with that, hast turn’d them amongst a company of horrible blacke Fryers.
Sir Vau. The same hand still, it is your owne another day, M. Horace, admonitions is good meate.
Tuc. Thou art the true arraign’d Poet, and shouldst haue been hang’d, but for one of these part-takers, these charitable Copperlac’d Christians, that fetcht thee out of Purgatory, (Players I meane) Theaterians pouch-mouth, Stage-walkers; for this Poet, for this, thou must lye with these foure wenches, in that blancket, for this——
Hor. What could I doe, out of a iust reuenge,
But bring them to the Stage? they enuy me
because I holde more worthy company.
Deme. Good Horace, no; my cheekes doe blush for thine,
As often as thou speakst so, where one true
And nobly-vertuous spirit, for thy best part
Loues thee, I wish one ten, euen from my heart.
I make account I put vp as deepe share
In any good mans loue, which thy worth earnes,
As thou thy selfe; we enuy not to see,
Thy friends with Bayes to crowne thy Poesie.
No, heere the gall lyes, we that know what stuffe
Thy verie heart is made of; know the stalke
On which thy learning growes, and can giue life
To thy (once dying) basenes; yet must we
Dance Antickes on your Paper.