Hor. Fannius.
Cri. This makes vs angry, but not enuious,
No, were thy warpt soule, put in a new molde,
Ide weare thee as a Iewell set in golde.
Sir Vau. And Iewels Master Horace, must be hang’d you know.
Tuc. Good Pagans, well said, they haue sowed vp that broken seame-rent lye of thine, that Demetrius is out at Elbowes, and Crispinus is falne out with Sattin heere, they haue; but bloate-herring dost heare?
Hor. Yes honour’d Captaine, I haue eares at will.
Tuc. Ist not better be out at Elbowes, then to bee a bond-slaue, and to goe all in Parchment as thou dost?
Horace. Parchment Captaine? tis Perpetuana I assure you.
Tuc. My Perpetuall pantaloone true, but tis waxt ouer; th’art made out of Wax; thou must answere for this one day; thy Muse is a hagler, and weares cloathes vpon best-be-trust: th’art great in some bodies books for this, thou knowst where; thou wouldst bee out at Elbowes, and out at heeles too, but that thou layest about thee with a Bill for this, a Bill—
Ho. I confesse Capten, I followed this suite hard.
Tuc. I know thou didst, and therefore whilst we haue Hiren heere, speake my little dish-washers, a verdit Pisse-kitchins.