_Tucca._ Right little _Twinckler_, right: hee sayes because thou speak’st no better, thou canst not keepe a good tongue in thy head. _Sir Vaug._ By God tis the best tongue, I can buy for loue or |1920| money. _Tuc._ He shootes at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrowes stickes heere; he calles thee bald-pate. _Sir Vaugh._ Oundes make him prooue these intollerabilities. _Tuc._ And askes who shall carry the vineger-bottle? & then he |1925| rimes too’t, and sayes Prickshaft: nay Miniuer hee cromples thy Cap too; and---- _Cri._ Come Tucca, come, no more; the man’s wel knowne, thou needst not paint him, whom does he not wrong? _Tuc._ Mary himselfe, the vglie Pope Boniface, pardons himselfe, |1930| and therefore my iudgement is, that presently he bee had from hence to his place of execution, and there bee Stab’d, Stab’d, Stab’d. _He stabs at him._ _Hor._ Oh gentlemen, I am slaine, oh slaue art hyr’d to murder me, to murder me, to murder me? |1935| _Ladies._ Oh God! _Sir Vaugh._ Ounds Capten, you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue smocks, teare off peeces, to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and buried? is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, |1940| rub, rub, rub. _Tu._ If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him: if I had kil’d him, I could ha pleas’d the great foole with an Apple. _Cris._ How now? be well good Horace, heer’s no wound; |1945| Y’are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man? Come, put thy heart into his place againe; Thy out-side’s neither peir’st, nor In-side slaine. _Sir Vau._ I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking. _Ho._ Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate. |1950| _Tuc._ Breadth of a groate? there’s a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scuruy Lazarus; doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst I cannot be sharpe set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon. |1955| _Mi._ O most pittifull as blunt as my great thumbe. _Sir Vau._ By Sesu, as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding. _Tuc._ As blunt as the top of Poules; tis not like thy Aloe, Cicatrine tongue, bitter: no, tis no stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt: dost roare bulchin? dost |1960| roare? th’ ast a good rounciuall voice to cry Lanthorne & Candlelight. _Sir Va._ Two vrds Horace about your eares: how chance it passes, that you bid God boygh to an honest trade of building Symneys, and laying downe Brickes, for a worse handicraftnes, |1965| to make nothing but railes; your Muse leanes vpon nothing but filthy rotten railes, such as stand on Poules head, how chance? _Hor._ Sir Vaughan.