|475| _Cris._ Horrace, Horrace, To stand within the shot of galling tongues, Proues not your gilt, for could we write on paper, Made of these turning leaues of heauen, the cloudes, Or speake with Angels tongues: yet wise men know, |480| That some would shake the head, tho Saints should sing, Some snakes must hisse, because they’re borne with stings. _Hor._ Tis true. _Cris._ Doe we not see fooles laugh at heauen? and mocke The Makers workmanship; be not you grieu’d |485| If that which you molde faire, vpright and smooth, Be skrwed awry, made crooked, lame and vile, By racking coments, and calumnious tongues, So to be bit it rankcles not: for innocence May with a feather brush off the foulest wrongs. |490| But when your dastard wit will strike at men In corners, and in riddles folde the vices Of your best friends, you must not take to heart, If they take off all gilding from their pilles, And onely offer you the bitter Coare. |495| _Hor._ Crispinus. _Cri._ Say that you haue not sworne vnto your Paper, To blot her white cheekes with the dregs and bottome Of your friends priuate vices: say you sweare Your loue and your aleageance to bright vertue |500| Makes you descend so low, as to put on The Office of an Executioner, Onely to strike off the swolne head of sinne, Where ere you finde it standing, Say you sweare; |505| And make damnation parcell of your oath, That when your lashing iestes make all men bleed; Yet you whip none. Court, Citty, country, friends, Foes, all must smart alike; yet Court, nor Citty, Nor foe, nor friend, dare winch at you; great pitty. |510| _Dem._ If you sweare, dam me Faninus, or Crispinus, Or to the law (_Our kingdomes golden chaine_) To Poets dam me, or to Players dam me, If I brand you, or you, tax you, scourge you: I wonder then, that of fiue hundred: foure |515| Should all point with their fingers in one instant At one and the same man? _Hor._ Deare Faninus. _Dem._ Come, you cannot excuse it. _Hor._ Heare me, I can-- |520| _Dem._ You must daube on thicke collours then to hide it. _Cris._ We come like your Phisitions, to purge Your sicke and daungerous minde of her disease. _Dem._ In troth we doe, out of our loues we come, And not reuenge, but if you strike vs still, |525| We must defend our reputations: Our pens shall like our swords be alwayes sheath’d, Vnlesse too much prouockt, Horace if then They draw bloud of you, blame vs not, we are men: Come, let thy Muse beare vp a smoother sayle, |530| Tis the easiest and the basest Arte to raile. _Hor._ Deliuer me your hands, I loue you both, As deare as my owne soule, prooue me, and when I shall traduce you, make me the scorne of men. _Both._ Enough, we are friends. |535| _Cri._ What reads Asinius? _Asi._ By my troth heer’s an excellent comfortable booke, it’s most sweet reading in it. _Dem._ Why, what does it smell of Bubo?