SUB. No, your clothes.-- Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of dung, So poor, so wretched, when no living thing Would keep thee company, but a spider, or worse? Rais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and watering-pots, Sublimed thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee In the third region, call'd our state of grace? Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with pains Would twice have won me the philosopher's work? Put thee in words and fashion, made thee fit For more than ordinary fellowships? Giv'n thee thy oaths, thy quarrelling dimensions, Thy rules to cheat at horse-race, cock-pit, cards, Dice, or whatever gallant tincture else? Made thee a second in mine own great art? And have I this for thanks! Do you rebel, Do you fly out in the projection? Would you be gone now? DOL. Gentlemen, what mean you? Will you mar all? SUB. Slave, thou hadst had no name-- DOL. Will you undo yourselves with civil war? SUB. Never been known, past equi clibanum, The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in cellars, Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; been lost To all mankind, but laundresses and tapsters, Had not I been. DOL. Do you know who hears you, sovereign? FACE. Sirrah-- DOL. Nay, general, I thought you were civil. FACE. I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus loud. SUB. And hang thyself, I care not. FACE. Hang thee, collier, And all thy pots, and pans, in picture, I will, Since thou hast moved me-- DOL. O, this will o'erthrow all. FACE. Write thee up bawd in Paul's, have all thy tricks Of cozening with a hollow cole, dust, scrapings, Searching for things lost, with a sieve and sheers, Erecting figures in your rows of houses, And taking in of shadows with a glass, Told in red letters; and a face cut for thee, Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's. DOL. Are you sound? Have you your senses, masters? FACE. I will have A book, but barely reckoning thy impostures, Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to printers. SUB. Away, you trencher-rascal! FACE. Out, you dog-leech! The vomit of all prisons-- DOL. Will you be Your own destructions, gentlemen? FACE. Still spew'd out For lying too heavy on the basket. SUB. Cheater! FACE. Bawd! SUB. Cow-herd! FACE. Conjurer! SUB. Cut-purse! FACE. Witch! DOL. O me! We are ruin'd, lost! have you no more regard To your reputations? where's your judgment? 'slight, Have yet some care of me, of your republic-- FACE. Away, this brach! I'll bring thee, rogue, within The statute of sorcery, tricesimo tertio Of Harry the Eighth: ay, and perhaps thy neck Within a noose, for laundring gold and barbing it.