_Sir Va._ Has a very sufficient name, and is a man has done God and his Country as good and as hot Seruice (in conquering this vile Monster-Poet) as euer did S. George his horse-backe about the Dragon. |2480| _Tuc._ I sweate for’t, but Tawsoone, holde thy tongue, Mon Dieu, if thou’t praise mee, doo’t behinde my backe: I am my weighty Soueraigne one of thy graines, thy valliant vassaile; aske not what I am, but read, turne ouer, vnclaspe thy Chronicles: there thou shalt finde Buffe-Ierkin; there read my points of war; I am |2485| one a thy Mandilian-Leaders; one that enters into thy royall bands for thee; _Pantilius Tucca_; one of thy Kingdomes chiefest quarrellers; one a thy most faithfull--fy--fy--fy---- _Sir Vau._ Drunkerds I holde my life. _Tuc._ No _whirligig_, one of his faithfull fighters; thy drawer ô |2490| royall _Tamor Cham_. _Sir Vau._ Goe too, I pray Captaine Tucca, giue vs all leaue to doe our busines before the King. _Tuc._ With all my heart, shi, shi, shi shake that _Beare-whelp_ when thou wut. |2495| _Sir Vau._ Horace and Bubo, pray send an answere into his Masesties eares, why you goe thus in Ouids Morter-Morphesis and strange fashions of apparrell. _Tuc._ Cur why? _Asini._ My Lords, I was drawne into this beastly suite by head |2500| and shoulders onely for loue I bare to my Ningle. _Tuc._ Speake Ningle, thy mouth’s next, belch out, belch, why---- _Hor._ I did it to retyre me from the world; And turne my _Muse_ into a _Timonist_, Loathing the general Leprozie of Sinne, |2505| Which like a plague runs through the soules of men: I did it but to---- _Tu._ But to bite euery Motley-head vice by’th nose, you did it Ningle to play the Bug-beare Satyre, & make a Campe royall of fashion-mongers quake at your paper Bullets; you Nastie Tortois, |2510| you and your Itchy Poetry breake out like Christmas, but once a yeare, and then you keepe a Reuelling, & Araigning, & a Scratching of mens faces, as tho you were Tyber the long-tail’d Prince of Rattes, doe you? _Cri._ Horace. |2515| _Sir Vaughan._ Silence, pray let all vrdes be strangled, or held fast betweene your teeth. _Cri._ Vnder controule of my dreade Soueraigne, We are thy Iudges; thou that didst _Arraigne_, Art now prepar’d for condemnation; |2520| Should I but bid thy Muse stand to the Barre, Thy selfe against her wouldst giue euidence: For flat rebellion gainst the Sacred lawes Of diuine Poesie: heerein most she mist, _Thy pride and scorne made her turne Saterist, |2525| And not her loue to vertue_ (as thou Preachest) Or should we minister strong pilles to thee: What lumpes of hard and indigested stuffe, Of bitter _Satirisme_, of _Arrogance_, Of _Selfe-loue_, of _Detraction_, of a blacke |2530| And stinking _Insolence_ should we fetch vp? But none of these, we giue thee what’s more fit, With stinging nettles Crowne his stinging wit.