_Sir Va._ You lye sir varlet sir villaine, I am sir Salamanders, ounds, is my man Master Peter Salamanders face as vrse as |1970| mine? Sentlemen, all and Ladies, and you say once or twice Amen, I will lap this little Silde, this Booby in his blankets agen. _Omnes._ Agree’d, agree’d. _Tuc._ A blanket, these crackt Venice glasses shall fill him out, they shall tosse him, holde fast wag-tailes: so, come, in, take |1975| this bandy with the racket of patience, why when? dost stampe mad Tamberlaine, dost stampe? thou thinkst th’ast Morter vnder thy feete, dost? _Ladies._ Come, a bandy ho. _Hor._ O holde most sacred beauties. |1980| _Sir Vau._ Hold, silence, the puppet-teacher speakes. _Ho._ Sir Vaughan, noble Capten, Gentlemen, Crispinus, deare Demetrius ô redeeme me, Out of this infamous---- by God by Iesu---- _Cri._ Nay, sweare not so good Horace, now these Ladies, |1985| Are made your executioners: prepare, To suffer like a gallant, not a coward; Ile trie t’ vnloose, their hands, impossible. Nay, womens vengeance are implacable. _Hor._ Why, would you make me thus the ball of scorne? |1990| _Tuc._ Ile tell thee why, because th’ ast entred Actions of assault and battery, against a companie of honourable and worshipfull Fathers of the law: you wrangling rascall, law is one of the pillers ath land, and if thou beest bound too’t (as I hope thou shalt bee) thou’t prooue a skip-Jacke, thou’t be whipt. Ile tell |1995| thee why, because thy sputtering chappes yelpe, that Arrogance, and Impudence, and Ignoraunce, are the essentiall parts of a Courtier. _Sir Vau._ You remember Horace, they will puncke, and pincke, and pumpe you, and they catch you by the coxcombe: on I |2000| pray, one lash, a little more. _Tuc._ Ile tell thee why, because thou cryest ptrooh at worshipfull Cittizens, and cal’st them Flat-caps, Cuckolds, and banckrupts, and modest and vertuous wiues punckes & cockatrices. Ile tell thee why, because th’ast arraigned two Poets against all |2005| lawe and conscience; and not content with that, hast turn’d them amongst a company of horrible blacke Fryers. _Sir Vau._ The same hand still, it is your owne another day, M. Horace, admonitions is good meate. _Tuc._ Thou art the true arraign’d Poet, and shouldst haue been |2010| hang’d, but for one of these part-takers, these charitable Copperlac’d Christians, that fetcht thee out of Purgatory, (Players I meane) Theaterians pouch-mouth, Stage-walkers; for this Poet, for this, thou must lye with these foure wenches, in that blancket, for this---- |2015| _Hor._ What could I doe, out of a iust reuenge, But bring them to the Stage? they enuy me because I holde more worthy company.