Jeronimoes part, to get service among the mimickes: and, when the Stagerites banisht thee into the Ile of Dogs, thou turn'dst ban-dog (villanous Guy) & ever since bitest, therefore I aske if th'ast been at Parris-garden, because thou hast such a good mouth; thou baitst well, read, lege, save thy selfe and read. (IV, i, 151-70.)

Boy. Capten, Capten, Horace stands sneaking heere.

Tuc. I smelt the foule-fisted morter-treader: come, my most damnable fastidious rascal, I have a suite to both of you. Asin. O holde, most pittifull Captaine, holde.

Hor. Holde, Capten, tis knowne that Horace is valliant, & a man of the sword.

Tuc. A gentleman or an honest cittizen shall not sit in your pennie-bench theaters, with his squirrell by his side cracking nuttes, nor sneake into a taverne with his mermaid, but he shall be satyr'd, and epigram'd upon, and his humour must run upo'th stage: you'll ha Every Gentleman in 's humour, and Every Gentleman out on 's humour: wee that are heades of legions and bandes, and feare none but these same shoulder-clappers, shall feare you, you serpentine rascall.

Hor. Honour'd Capten

Tuc. Art not famous enough yet, my mad Horastratus, for killing a player, but thou must eate men alive? thy friends? Sirra wilde-man, thy patrons? thou Anthropophagite, thy Mecænasses? (IV, ii, 65-87.)

Tuc. . . . Tis thy fashion to flirt inke in everie mans face, and then to craule into his bosome, and damne thy selfe to wip't off agen, yet to give out abroad, that hee was glad to come to composition with thee: I know, Monsieur Machiavell, tis one a thy rules; My long-heel'd troglodite, I could make thine eares burne now, by dropping into them all those hot oathes, to which thy selfe gav'st voluntarie fire, (whe thou wast the man in the moone) that thou wouldst never squib out any new salt-peter jestes against honest Tucca, nor those maligotasters, his poetasters; I could Cinocephalus, but I will not, yet thou knowst

thou hast broke those oathes in print, my excellent infernall. . . . Thou 'lt shoote thy quilles at mee when my terrible backe 's turn'd for all this, wilt not porcupine? and bring me & my Heliconistes into thy dialogues to make us talke madlie, wut not Lucian? (IV, ii, 101–31.)

*

Dicache. That same Horace, me thinkes, has the most ungodly face, by my fan; it lookes, for all the world, like a rotten russet apple when tis bruiz'd: its better then a spoonefull of sinamon water next my heart, for me to heare him speake; hee soundes it so i' th' nose, and talkes and randes for all the world like the poore fellow under Ludgate: oh fye upon him!

Min[iver]. By my troth, sweet ladies, it's cake and pudding to me to see his face make faces when hee reades his songs and sonnets.

Hor. Ile face some of you for this when you shall not budge. Tuc. Its the stinckingst dung-farmer-foh upon him!

Sir Vaughan. Foh? oundes, you make him urse than old herring: foh? by Sesu, I thinke he's as tidy and as tall a poet as ever drew out a long verse.

Tuc. The best verse that ever I knew him hacke out was his white neck-verse. Noble Ap Rees, thou wouldst scorne to laye thy lippes to his commendations, and thou smeldst him out as I doe: hee calles thee the burning Knight of the Salamander. . . Cris. Come, Tucca, come, no more; the man's wel knowne, thou needst not paint him: whom does he not wrong?

Tuc. Mary, himselfe, the uglie Pope Boniface pardons himselfe, and therefore my judgement is that presently he bee had from hence to his place of execution, and there bee stab'd, stab'd, stab'd. (IV, iii, 100-54.)

Tuc.

Feele my weapon.

As blunt as the top of Poules; tis not like thy aloe, cicatrine tongue, bitter; no tis no stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt: dost roare bulchin? dost roare? th'ast a good rouncivall voice to cry lanthorne & candlelight.

Sir Vaughan. Two urds, Horace, about your eares: how

chance it passes that you bid God boygh to an honest trade of building symneys and laying downe brickes, for a worse handicraftnes, to make nothing but railes; your muse leanes upon nothing but filthy rotten railes, such as stand on Poules head, how chance? (IV, iii, 181-98.)

*

Tuc. . . . Dost stampe? thou thinkst th'ast morter under thy feete, dost? (IV, iii, 211-12.)

*

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 proove a skip-jacke, thou't be whipt. Ile tell thee why, because thy sputtering chappes yelpe that arrogance, and impudence, and ignoraunce are the essential parts of a courtier. . . . Ile tell thee why, because thou cryest ptrooh at worshipfull cittizens, and cal'st them flat-caps, cuckolds, and banckrupts, and modest and vertuous wives 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: ... Thou art the true arraign'd poet, and shouldst have 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 just revenge,

But bring them to the stage? they envy me

Because I holde more worthy company.

Dem. 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
Loves thee, I wish one ten, even from my heart.
I make account I put up as deepe share

In any good mans love, which thy worth earnes,
As thou thy selfe. We envy 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 give life
To thy (once dying) basenes, yet must we
Dance antickes on your paper.

Cris. This makes us angry, but not envious. No, were thy warpt soule put in a new molde,

Ide weare thee as a jewel set in golde.

Sir Vaughan. And jewels, Master Horace, must be hang'd you know.

Tuc. Ist not better be out at elbowes, then to bee a bondslave, and to goe all in parchment as thou dost?

Hor. Parchment, Captaine? tis Perpetuana I assure you.

Tuc. My perpetuall pantaloone, true, but tis waxt over; th'art made out of wax; thou must answere for this one day; thy muse is a hagler, and weares cloathes upon 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

Hor. I confesse, Capten, I followed this suite hard. . . Sir Vaughan. I have put upon my heade a fine device to make you laugh; tis not your fooles cap, Master Horace, which you cover'd your poetasters in, but a fine tricke, ha, ha, is jumbling in my braine. . . . 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. (IV, iii, 225–323.)

Cris. My Leige, to wed a comicall event

To presupposed tragicke argument,
Vouchsafe to exercise your eyes, and see

A humorous dreadfull poet take degree.

King. Dreadfull, in his proportion, or his pen?

Cris. In both, he calles himselfe the whip of men. Demetrius,

Call in that selfe-creating Horace, bring

Him and his shaddow foorth. . . .

Enter Tucca, his boy after him with two pictures under his cloake, and a wreath of nettles: Horace and Bubo pul'd in by th' hornes bound both like Satyres, . . .

Tuc. So, tug, tug, pull the mad bull in by'th hornes: so, baite one at that stake, my place-mouth yelpers, and one at that stake, Gurnets-head. . . .

Sir Vaughan. Goe too, I pray, Captaine Tucca, give us all leave to doe our busines before the King.

Tuc. With all my heart, shi, shi, shi shake that Beare-whelp when thou wut.

Sir Vaughan. Horace and Bubo, pray send an answere into his Masesties eares, why you goe thus in Ovids Morter-Morphesis and strange fashions of apparrell.

.

Hor. I did it to retyre me from the world,

And turne my Muse into a Timonist,

Loathing the general leprozie of sinne,

Which like a plague runs through the soules of men:

I did it but to

Tuc. But to bite every Motley-head vice by'th nose; you did it, ningle, to play the bug-beare satyre, & make a campe royall of fashion-mongers quake at your paper bullets: you nastie tortois, you and your itchy poetry breake out like Christmas, but once a yeare, and then you keepe a Revelling, & Araigning, & a scratching of mens faces, as tho you were Tyber, the long-tail'd Prince of Rattes, doe you?

Cris. Under controule of my dreade Soveraigne,

We are thy Judges; thou that didst Arraigne,

Art now prepar'd for condemnation?

Should I but bid thy muse stand to the barre,
Thy selfe against her wouldst give evidence,
For flat rebellion gainst the sacred lawes
Of divine Poesie: heerein most she mist,