_Tuc._ Well said Cockrell out-crowe him: art hardy noble Huon? |1660| art Magnanimious? licke-trencher; looke, search least some lye in ambush; for this man at Armes has paper in’s bellie, or some friend in a corner, or else hee durst not bee so cranke. _Boy._ Capten, Capten, Horace stands sneaking heere. _Tuc._ I smelt the foule-fisted Morter-treader, come my most |1665| damnable fastidious rascall, I haue a suite to both of you. _Asi._ O holde, most pittifull Captaine holde. _Hor._ Holde Capten, tis knowne that Horace is valliant, & a man of the sword. _Tuc._ A Gentleman or an honest Cittizen, shall not Sit in your |1670| pennie-bench Theaters, with his Squirrell by his side cracking nuttes; nor sneake into a Tauerne with his Mermaid; but he shall be Satyr’d, and Epigram’d vpon, and his humour must run vpo’th Stage: you’ll ha _Euery Gentleman in’s humour_, and _Euery Gentleman out on’s humour_: wee that are heades of Legions and |1675| Bandes, and feare none but these same shoulder-clappers, shall feare you, you Serpentine rascall. _Hor._ Honour’d Capten. _Tuc._ Art not famous enough yet, my mad _Horastratus_, for killing a Player, but thou must eate men aliue? thy friends? Sirra |1680| wilde-man, thy Patrons? thou Anthropophagite, thy Mecænasses? _Hor._ Captaine, I’m sorry that you lay this wrong So close vnto your heart: deare Captaine thinke I writ out of hot bloud, which (now) being colde, I could be pleas’d (to please you) to quaffe downe, |1685| The poyson’d Inke, in which I dipt your name. _Tuc._ Saist thou so, my _Palinodicall_ rimester? _Hor._ Hence forth Ile rather breath out _Solœcismes_ (To doe which Ide as soone speake blasphemie) Than with my tongue or pen to wound your worth, |1690| Beleeue it noble Capten; it to me Shall be a Crowne, to crowne your actes with praize, Out of your hate, your loue Ile stronglie raize. _Tuc._ I know now th’ast a number of these _Quiddits_ to binde men to’th peace: tis thy fashion to flirt Inke in euerie mans face; and |1695| then to craule into his bosome, and damne thy selfe to wip’t off agen: yet to giue out abroad, that hee was glad to come to composition with thee: I know _Monsieur Machiauell_ tis one a thy rules; My long-heel’d T_roglodite_, I could make thine eares burne now, by dropping into them, all those hot oathes, to which, thy selfe |1700| gau’st voluntarie fire, (whē thou wast the man in the Moone) that thou wouldst neuer squib out any new Salt-peter Iestes against honest Tucca, nor those Maligo-tasters, his _Poetasters_; I could Cinocephalus, but I will not, yet thou knowst thou hast broke those oathes in print, my excellent infernall. |1705| _Ho._ Capten.