_Asi._ Mas it smels of Rose-leaues a little too. |540| _Hor._ Then it must needs be a sweet booke, he would faine perfume his ignorance. _Asi._ I warrant he had wit in him that pen’d it. _Cris._ Tis good yet a foole will confesse truth. _Asi._ The whoorson made me meete with a hard stile in two or |545| three places as I went ouer him. _Dem._ I beleeue thee, for they had need to be very lowe & easie Stiles of wit that thy braines goe ouer. _Enter_ Blunt _and_ Tucca. _Blun._ Wher’s this gallant? Morrow Gentlemen: what’s this |550| deuise done yet Horace? _Hor._ Gods so, what meane you to let this fellow dog you into my Chamber? _Blun._ Oh, our honest Captayne, come, prethee let vs see. _Tuc._ Why you bastards of nine whoores, the Muses, why doe |555| you walk heere in this gorgeous gailery of gallant inuentions, with that whooreson poore lyme & hayre-rascall? why-- _Cris._ O peace good Tucca, we are all sworne friends. _Tuc._ Sworne, that Iudas yonder that walkes in Rug, will dub you Knights ath Poste, if you serue vnder his band of oaths, the |560| copper-fact rascal wil for a good supper out sweare twelue dozen of graund Iuryes. _Blun._ A pox ont, not done yet, and bin about it three dayes? _Horr._ By Iesu within this houre, saue you Captayne Tucca. _Tuc._ Dam thee, thou thin bearded Hermaphrodite, dam thee, |565| Ile saue my selfe for one I warrant thee, is this thy Tub Diogines? _Hor._ Yes Captaine this is my poore lodging. _Asin._ _Morrow Captaine Tucca_, will you whiffe this morning? _Tuc._ Art thou there goates pizzel; no godamercy Caine I am |570| for no whiffs I, come hether sheep-skin-weauer, s’foote thou lookst as though th’adst beg’d out of a Iayle: drawe, I meane not thy face (for tis not worth drawing) but drawe neere: this way, martch, follow your commaunder you scoundrell: So, thou must run of an errand for mee Mephostophiles. |575| _Hor._ To doe you pleasure Captayne I will, but whether. _Tuc._ To hell, thou knowst the way, to hell my fire and brimstone, to hell; dost stare my Sarsens-head at Newgate? dost gloate? Ile march through thy dunkirkes guts for shooting iestes at me. |580| _Hor._ Deare Captaine but one word. _Tuc._ Out bench-whistler out, ile not take thy word for a dagger Pye: you browne-bread-mouth stinker, ile teach thee to turne me into Bankes his horse, and to tell gentlemen I am a Iugler, and can shew trickes. |585| _Hor._ Captaine Tucca, but halfe a word in your eare. _Tuc._ No you staru’d rascal, thou’t bite off mine eares then, you must haue three or foure suites of names, when like a lowsie Pediculous vermin th’ast but one suite to thy backe: you must be call’d Asper, and Criticus, and Horace, thy tytle’s longer a |590| reading then the Stile a the big Turkes: Asper, Criticus, Quintus, Horatius, Flaccus. _Hor._ Captaine I know vpon what euen bases I stand, and therefore-- _Tuc._ Bases? wud the roague were but ready for me.