Psyllus. How canst thou thus divine, divide, define, dispute, and all on the sodaine?
Manes. Wit will have his swing! I am bewitcht, inspired, inflamed, infected.
Psyllus. Well then will I not tempt thy gybing spirit. 55
Manes. Doe not, Psyllus, for thy dull head will bee but a grind-stone for my quicke wit, which if thou whet with overthwarts,[866] periisti, actum est de te! I have drawne bloud at ones braines with a bitter bob.
Psyllus. Let me crosse my selfe; for I die if I crosse thee. 60
Manes. Let me doe my businesse. I my selfe am afraid lest my wit should waxe warme, and then must it needs consume some hard head with fine and prettie jests. I am sometimes in such a vaine that, for want of some dull pate to worke on, I begin to gird my selfe. 65
Psyllus. The gods shield me from such a fine fellow, whose words melt wits like waxe.
Manes. Well then, let us to the matter. In faith, my master meaneth to morrow to flie.
Psyllus. It is a jest. 70
Manes. Is it a jest to flie? Shouldest thou flie so soone, thou shouldest repent it in earnest.