PHANTASMA. So ho, Furor! Nay, prythee, good Furor, in sober sadness-- FUROR. Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo. PHANTASMA. Nay, sweet Furor,--ipsae te, Tityre, pinus-- FUROR. Ipsi te fontes, ipsa haec arbusta vocarunt. Who's that runs headlong on my quill's sharp point, That, wearied of his life and baser breath, Offers himself to an Iambic verse? PHANTASMA. Si, quoties peccant homines, sua fulmina mittat Jupiter, exiguo tempore inermis erit. FUROR. What slimy, bold, presumptuous groom[74] is he, Dares with his rude, audacious, hardy chat Thus sever me from sky-bred[75] contemplation? PHANTASMA. _Carmina vel coelo possunt deducere lunam_. FUROR. O Phantasma! what, my individual[76] mate? PHANTASMA. _O, mihi post nullos, Furor, memorande sodales_! FUROR. Say, whence comest thou? sent from what deity? From great Apollo or sly Mercury? PHANTASMA. I come from the little Mercury Ingenioso: for, _Ingenio pollet, cui vim natura negavit_. FUROR. Ingenioso? He is a pretty inventor of slight prose; But there's no spirit in his grov'lling speech. Hang him, whose verse cannot outbelch the wind, That cannot beard and brave Dan Aeolus; That, when the cloud of his invention breaks, Cannot outcrack the scarecrow thunderbolt. Hang him, I say![77] PHANTASMA. _Pendo, pependi; tendo, tetendi; pedo, pepedi_. Will it please you, Master Furor, to walk with me? I promise to bring you to a drinking-inn in Cheapside, at the sign of the Nag's Head; for _Tempore lenta pati fraena docentur equi_. FUROR. Pass thee before, I'll come incontinent. PHANTASMA. Nay, faith, Master Furor, let's go together, _quoniam convenimus ambo_. FUROR. Let us march on unto the house of fame; There, quaffing bowls of Bacchus' blood full nimbly, Indite a-tiptoe strutting poesy. [_They offer the way one to the other_. PHANTASMA. _Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui plenum? Tu major: tibi me est aequum parere, Menalca_. ACTUS II., SCAENA 1. _Enter_ PHILOMUSUS, THEODORE, _his patient, the_ BURGESS, _and his man with his staff_. THEODORE. [_Puts on his spectacles_.] Monsieur, here are _atomi natantes_, which do make show your worship to be as lecherous as a bull. BURGESS. Truly, Master Doctor, we are all men. THEODORE. This vater is intention of heat: are you not perturbed with an ache in your vace[78] or in your occipit? I mean your headpiece. Let me feel the pulse of your little finger. BURGESS. I'll assure you, Master Theodore, the pulse of my head beats exceedingly; and I think I have disturbed myself by studying the penal statutes. THEODORE. Tit, tit, your worship takes care of your speeches. _O, Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent_: it is an aphorism in Galen. BURGESS. And what is the exposition of that? THEODORE. That your worship must take a gland, _ut emittatur sanguis_: the sign is _fort_ excellent, _fort_ excellent.