_Get._ Ye are right, Master, Right as a Gun; For we the vertuous, Though we be Kennel-rakers, Scabs, and Scoundrels, We the discreet and bold; and yet, now I remember it, We Tilers may deserve to be Senators; And there we step before you thick-skin'd Tanners, For we are born three stories high; no base ones, None of your groundlings, master. _Dio._ I like thee well, Thou hast a good mind, as I have, to this Honour. _Get._ As good a mind, Sir, of a simple plaisterer-- And when I come to execute my office, Then you shall see. _Max._ What? _Get._ An Officer in fury; An Officer as he ought to be; do you laugh at it? Is a Senator (in hope) worth no more reverence? By these hands I'll clap you by th' heels the first hour of it. _Max._ O' my Conscience, the fellow believes. _Dio._ I, do, do, _Geta_, For if I once be Emperour-- _Get._ Then will I (For wise men must be had to prop the Republick) Not bate ye a single ace of a sound Senator. _Dio._ But what shall we do the whilst? _Get._ Kill Swine, and sowse 'em, And eat 'em when we have bread. _Max._ Why didst thou run away When the Boar made toward thee? art thou not valiant? _Get._ No indeed am I not; and 'tis for mine honour too; I took a Tree, 'tis true, gave way to the Monster; Hark what discretion says, let fury pass; From the tooth of a mad Beast, and the tongue of a Slanderer Preserve thine honour. _Dio._ He talks like a full Senator: Go, take it up, and carry it in, 'tis a huge one, We never kill'd so large a Swine, so fierce too, I never met with yet. _Max._ Take heed, it stirs again; How nimbly the Rogue runs up! he climbs like a Squirrel. _Dio._ Come down, ye Dunce, is it not dead? _Get._ I know not. _Dio._ His throat is cut, and his bowels out. _Get._ That's all one, _I_ am sure his teeth are in; and for any thing I know, He may have Pigs of his own nature in's Belly. _Dio._ Come, take him up I say, and see him drest, He is fat, and will be lusty meat: away with him, And get some of him ready for our Dinner. _Get._ Shall he be roasted whole, And serv'd up in a souce-tub? a portly service, I'll run i'th' wheel my self. _Max._ Sirrah, leave your prating, And get some piece of him ready presently, We are weary both, and hungry. _Get._ I'll about it. What an inundation of Brewiss shall I swim in! [_Exit._ _Dio._ Thou art ever dull and melancholy, Cousin, Distrustful of my hopes. _Max._ Why, can you blame me? Do men give credit to a Jugler? _Dio._ Thou knowst she is a Prophetess. _Max._ A small one, And as small profit to be hop'd for by her. _Dio._ Thou art the strangest man; how does thy hurt? The Boar came near you, Sir. _Max._ A scratch, a scratch.