_Hor._ Foh come, your great belly’d wit must long for euery thing too; why you _Rooke_, I haue a set of letters readie starcht to my hands, which to any fresh suited gallant, that but newlie enters his name into my rowle, I send the next morning, ere his |970| ten a clocke dreame has rize from him, onelie with claping my hand to’t, that my Nouice shall start, ho and his haire stand an end, when hee sees the sodaine flash of my writing; what you prettie Diminitiue roague, we must haue false fiers to amaze these spangle babies, these true heires of Ma. Justice Shallow. |975| _Asi._ I wod alwaies haue thee sawce a foole thus. _Hor._ Away, and, stay: heere be Epigrams vpon Tucca, divulge these among the gallants; as for Crispinus, that Crispin-asse and Fannius his Play-dresser; who (to make the Muses beleeue, their subiects eares were staru’d, and that there was a dearth of Poesie) |980| cut an Innocent Moore i’th middle, to serue him in twice; & when he had done, made Poules-worke of it, as for these Twynnes these _Poet-apes_: Their Mimicke trickes shall serue With mirth to feast our Muse, whilst their owne starue. |985| _Asin._ Well Ningle Ile trudge, but where’s the Randeuow? _Hor._ Well thought off, marie at Sir Vaughans lodging the Welsh knight, I haue compos’d a loue-letter for the gallants worship, to his Rosamond: the second, Mistris Miniuer, because she does not thinke so soundly of his lame English as he could |990| wish; I ha gull’d his Knight-ship heere to his face, yet haue giuen charge to his wincking vnderstanding not to perceiue it: nay Gods so, away deare Bubo. _Asi._ I am gone. _Exit._ _Hor._ The Muses birdes the Bees were hiu’d and fled, |995| Vs in our cradle, thereby prophecying; _That we to learned eares should sweetly sing, But to the vulger and adulterate braine, Should loath to prostitute our Virgin straine_. No, our sharpe pen shall keep the world in awe, |1000| Horace thy Poesie, wormwood wreathes shall weare, We hunt not for mens loues but for their feare. _Exit._ _Enter_ Sir Adam _and_ Miniuer. _Min._ O Sir Adam Prickshaft, you are a the bow hand wide, a long yard I assure you: and as for Suitors, truelie they all goe |1005| downe with me, they haue all one flat answere. _Sir Adam._ All Widdow? not all, let Sir Adam bee your first man still. _Enter_ Sir Quintilian. _Sir quin._ Widdow, art stolne from Table? I Sir Adam, |1010| Are you my riuall? well, flye faire y’are best; The King’s exceeding merrie at the banquet, He makes the Bride blush with his merrie words, That run into her eares; ah he’s a wanton, Yet I dare trust her, had he twentie tongues, |1015| And euerie tongue a Stile of Maiestie. Now Widdow, let me tell thee in thine eare, I loue thee Widdow, by this ring; nay weare it.