Omnes. Blancket.
Sir Vau. Holde I pray, holde, by Sesu I haue put vpon my heade, a fine deuice, to make you laugh, tis not your fooles Cap Master Horace, which you couer’d your Poetasters in, but a fine tricke, ha, ha, is iumbling in my braine.
Tuc. Ile beate out thy braines, my whorson hansome dwarfe, but ile haue it out of thee.
Omnes. What is it good Sir Vaughan?
Sir Vau. To conclude, tis after this manners, because Ma. Horace is ambition, and does conspire to bee more hye and tall, as God a mightie made him, wee’ll carry his terrible person to Court, and there before his Masestie Dub, or what you call it, dip his Muse in some licour, and christen him, or dye him, into collours of a Poet.
Omnes. Excellent.
Tuc. Super Super-excellent Reuellers goe, proceede you Masters of Arte in kissing these wenches, and in daunces, bring you the quiuering Bride to Court, in a Maske, come Crumboll, thou shalt Mum with vs; come, dogge mee skneakes-bill.
Hor. O thou my Muse!
Sir Vau. Call vpon God a mighty, and no Muses, your Muse I warrant is otherwise occupied, there is no dealing with your Muse now, therefore I pray marse, marse, marse, oundes your Moose?