RHYME. The colour bears't, if you'll venture the stuff. The tenderness of it, I do confess, Somewhat denies a grappling. CHRIS. I will try: Perhaps my spirit will suggest some anger. _Enter_ ANDREW. AND. Save you, boon sparks! Will't please you to admit me? CHRIS. Your worship graceth us in condescending To level thus your presence, noble[195] sir. AND. What may I call your name, most reverend sir? BAG. His name's Sir Kit. CHRIS. My name is not so short: 'Tis a trisyllable, an't please your worship; But vulgar tongues have made bold to profane it With the short sound of that unhallow'd idol They call a kit. Boy, learn more reverence. BAG. Yes, to my betters. AND. Nay, friends, do not quarrel. CHRIS. It is the holy cause, and I must quarrel. Thou son of parchment, got between the standish And the stiff buckram-bag! thou, that may'st call The pen thy father and the ink thy mother, The sand thy brother and the wax thy sister, And the good pillory thy cousin [once] remov'd-- I say, learn reverence to thy betters. BAG. Set up an hour-glass; he'll go on, until The last sand make his period. CHRIS. 'Tis my custom; I do approve the calumny: the words I do acknowledge, but not the disgrace, Thou vile ingrosser of unchristian deeds. BAG. Good Israel Inspiration, hold your tongue; It makes far better music when you nose Sternhold's or Wisdom's metre.[196] CATCH. By your leave, You fall on me now, brother. RHYME. 'Tis by cause You are too forward, brother Catchmey. CATCH. I too forward! RHYME. Yes, I say you are too forward-- By the length of your London-measure beard. CATCH. Thou never couldst entreat that respite yet Of thy dishonesty as to get one hair To testify thy age. BAG. I'm beardless too; I hope you think not so of me[197]. CHRIS. Yes, verily; Not one hair's difference betwixt you both. RHYME. Thou violent cushion-thumper, hold thy tongue; The Furies dwell in it! CATCH. Peace, good Sir Kit. CHRIS. Sir Kit again! thou art a Lopez. When One of thy legs rots off (which will be shortly), Thou'lt bear about a quire of wicked paper, Defiled with [un]sanctified rhymes And idols in the frontispiece--that I May speak to thy capacity, thou'lt be A ballad-monger. CATCH. I shall live to see thee Stand in a playhouse door with thy long box, Thy half-crown library, and cry small books. _Buy a good godly sermon, gentlemen--_ _A judgment shown upon a knot of drunkards:_ _A pill to purge out popery: The life_ _And death of Katharine Stubbs._[198] CHRIS. Thou wilt visit windows. Methinks I hear thee with thy begging tone, About the break of day, waking the brethren Out of their morning-revelations. AND. Brave sport, i' faith!