_Hor._ Nay good roague marke, for they are the best lynes that euer I drew. _Asin._ Heer’s the best leafe in England, but on, on, Ile but |310| tune this Pipe. _Hor._ Marke, _to thee whose fore-head swels with Roses_. _Asin._ O sweet, but will there be no exceptions taken, because fore-head and swelling comes together? _Hor._ Push away, away, its proper, besides tis an elegancy to |315| say the fore head swels. _Asin._ Nay an’t be proper, let it stand for Gods loue. _Hor._ Whose most haunted bower, Giues life and sent to euery flower, Whose most adored name incloses, |320| Things abstruse, deep and diuine. Whose yellow tresses shine, Bright as _Eoan_ fire. _Asini._ O pure, rich, ther’s heate in this, on, on. _Hor._ Bright as _Eoan_ fire, |325| O me thy Priest inspire! For I to thee and thine immortall name ---- _marke this_. In flowing numbers fild with spryte and flame. _Asini._ I mary, ther’s spryte and flame in this. _Hor._ A pox, a this Tobacco. |330| _Asin._ Wod this case were my last, if I did not marke, nay all’s one, I haue alwayes a consort of Pypes about me, myne Ingle is all fire and water; I markt, by this Candle (which is none of Gods Angels) I remember, you started back at sprite and flame. _Hor._ For I to thee and thine immortall name, |335| In flowing numbers fild with sprite and flame, To thee Loues mightiest King, _Himen_ ô _Himen_, does our chaste Muse sing. _Asin._ Ther’s musicke in this. _Hor._ Marke now deare _Asinius_. |340| Let these virgins quickly see thee, Leading out the Bride, Though theyr blushing cheekes they hide, Yet with kisses will they fee thee, To vntye theyr Virgin zone, |345| They grieue to lye alone. _Asini._ So doe I by _Venus_. _Hor._ Yet with kisses wil they fee thee, my Muse has marcht (deare roague) no farder yet: but how ist? how ist? nay prethee good _Asinius_ deale plainly, doe not flatter me, come, how?-- |350| _Asin._ If I haue any iudgement: _Hor._ Nay look you Sir, and then follow a troope of other rich and labour’d conceipts, oh the end shall be admirable! but how ist sweet _Bubo_, how, how? _Asini._ If I have any Iudgement, tis the best stuffe that euer |355| dropt from thee. _Hor._ You ha seene my Acrosticks? _Asi._ Ile put vp my pypes and then Ile see any thing. _Hor._ Th’ast a Coppy of mine Odes to, hast not Bubo? _Asi._ Your odes? O that which you spake by word a mouth at |360| th’ ordinary, when Musco the gull cryed Mew at it. _Hor._ A pox on him poore braineles Rooke: and you remember, I tolde him his wit lay at pawne with his new Sattin sute, and both would be lost, for not fetching home by a day. _Asi._ At which he would faine ha blusht but that his painted |365| cheekes would not let him. _Hor._ Nay sirra the Palinode, which I meane to stitch to my Reuels, shall be the best and ingenious peece that euer I swet for; stay roague, Ile fat thy spleane and make it plumpe with laughter.