Of Vincentio,[592] and the Burgonian's ward.[593] This bombast foil-button I once did see, By chance, in Livia's modest company; When, after the god-saving ceremony, For want of talk-stuff, falls to foinery; Out goes his rapier, and to Livia He shows the ward by _puncta reversa_, The _incarnata_. Nay, by the blessed light! 70 Before he goes, he'll teach her how to fight And hold her weapon. Oh I laugh amain, To see the madness of this Martius' vein! But room for Tuscus, that jest-mounging youth Who ne'er did ope his apish gerning mouth But to retail and broke another's wit Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit Your present talk, with "Sir, I'll tell a jest" (Of some sweet lady, or grand lord at least). Then on he goes, and ne'er his tongue shall lie 80 Till his engrossèd jests are all drawn dry; But then as dumb as Maurus, when at play Hath lost his crowns, and pawn'd his trim array. He doth nought but retail jests: break but one, Out flies his table-book; let him alone, He'll have it i'faith. Lad, hast an epigram, Wilt have it put into the chaps of fame? Give Tuscus copies; sooth, as his own wit (His proper issue) he will father it. O that this echo, that doth seek, spet, write 90 Nought but the excrements of others sprite, This ill-stuff'd trunk of jests (whose very soul Is but a heap of gibes) should once enroll His name 'mong creatures termed rational! Whose chief repute, whose sense, whose soul and all Are fed with offal scraps, that sometimes fall From liberal wits in their large festival. Come aloft, Jack! room for a vaulting skip, Room for Torquatus, that ne'er oped his lip But in prate of _pommado reversa_,[594] 100 Of the nimble, tumbling Angelica. Now, on my soul, his very intellect Is nought but a curvetting sommerset. "Hush, hush," cries honest Philo, "peace, desist! Dost thou not tremble, sour satirist, Now that[595] judicial Musus readeth thee? He'll whip each line, he'll scourge thy balladry, Good faith he will." Philo, I prithee stay Whilst I the humour of this dog display. He's nought but censure; wilt thou credit me, 110 He never writ one line in poesy, But once at Athens in a theme did frame A paradox in praise of virtue's name; Which still he hugs and lulls as tenderly As cuckold Tisus his wife's bastardy? Well, here's a challenge: I flatly say he lies That heard him ought but censure poesies; 'Tis his discourse, first having knit the brow, Stroke up his fore-top, champèd every row, Belcheth his slavering censure on each book 120 That dare presume even on Medusa look. I have no artist's skill in symphonies, Yet when some pleasing diapason flies From out the belly of a sweet-touch'd lute, My ears dare[596] say 'tis good: or when they suit