King. Wherein?
Bal. I'le be plaine with you: much mischiefe is done by the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch-hole: you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now?
King. Ha, ha, ha!
Bal. Angels err'd but once and fell; but you, Sir, spit in heaven's face every minute and laugh at it. Laugh still and follow your courses; doe; let your vices run like your kennels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting bliss.
King. Any more?
Bal. Take sinne as the English Snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully blow the smoke in the eyes of heaven; the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery, but when 'tis out the coal is blacke (your conscience) and the pipe stinkes: a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.
King. Nay, spit thy venome.
Bal. 'Tis Aqua Coelestis, no venome; for, when you shall claspe up those wo books, never to be open'd againe; when by letting fall that Anchor, which can never more bee weighed up, your mortall Navigation ends: then there's no playing at spurne-point[191] with thunderbolts: a Vintner then for unconscionable reckoning or a Taylor for unreasonable Items shall not answer in halfe that feare you must.
King. No more.
Bal. I will follow Truth at the heels, tho her foot beat my gums in peeces.