CHRIS. When I Level my larger thoughts unto the basis Of thy deep shallowness, am I profane? Henceforth I'll speak, or rather not speak, for I will speak darkly. CATCH. There's one comfort then: You will be brief! CHRIS. My briefness is prolix. Thy mind is bodily, thy soul corporeal, And all thy subtle faculties are not subtle: Thy subtlety is dulness. I am strong; I will not be conceiv'd by such mechanics. RHYME. I do conceive you, though, Sir Christopher; My muse doth sometimes take the selfsame flight. CHRIS. _Pauci, pauci quos æquus amavit._ But quadragesimal wits[193] and fancies, lean As ember weeks (which therefore I call lean, Because they're fat), these I do doom unto A knowing ignorance: he that's conceiv'd By such is not conceiv'd; sense is non-sense, If understood by them. I'm strong again. RHYME. You err most orthodoxly, sweet Sir Kit. CHRIS. I love that, though I hate it; and I have A kind of disagreeing consent to't. I'm strong, I'm strong again. Let's keep these two In desperate hope of understanding us: Riddles and clouds are very lights of speech. I'll veil my careless anxious thoughts, as 'twere In a perspicuous cloud, that I may Whisper in a loud voice, and ev'n be silent, When I do utter words. Words did I call them? My words shall be no words, my voice no voice, My noise no noise, my very language silence. I'm strong, I'm strong. Good sir, you understand not! BAG. Nor do desire: 'tis merely froth and barm, The yeast that makes your thin small sermons work. CHRIS. Thou hold'st thy peace most vocally. Again! CATCH. I hate this bilk. CHRIS. Thou lov'st, 'cause thou dost hate: Thy injuries are courtesies. Strong again! CATCH. Good Samson, use not this your ass's jaw-bone. CHRIS. Thou'st got my love by losing it: that earnest Jest hath regain'd my soul. Samson was strong; He killed a thousand with an ass's jaw-bone, _Enter a_ SERVANT, _as passing by_. And so will I. 'St! 'st!--good friend, d' y' hear? Here is a letter, friend, to Master Meanwell. BAG. Any reversions yet? Nothing transmiss'd? RHYME. No gleanings, James? No trencher-analects?[194] SER. Parley a little with your stomachs, sirs. CATCH. There's nothing so ridiculous as the hungry: A fasting man is a good jest at any time. SER. There is a gentleman without, that will'd me To ask if you'll admit of him among you: He can't endure to be in good company. CATCH. You're merry, James. Yes, by all means, good James. Admit, quoth he! What else? Pray, send him in. [_Exit_ SERVANT. Let's be resolv'd to fall out now; then he Shall have the glory to compose the quarrel By a good dozen of pacifical beer. RHYME. BAG. Agreed, agreed. CHRIS. My coat allows no quarrel.