Hor. Nor yet.

Cris. Why, I have been a reveller, and at my cloth of silver suit
and my long stocking, in my time, and will be again

Hor. If you may be trusted, sir.

Cris. And then, for my singing, Hermogenes himself envies me, that
is your only master of music you have in Rome.

Hor. Is your mother living, sir?

Cris. Ay! convert thy thoughts to somewhat else, I pray thee.

Hor. You have much of the mother in you, sir: Your father is dead?

Cris. Ay, I thank Jove, and my grandfather too, and all my
kinsfolks, and well composed in their urns.

Hor.
The more their happiness, that rest in peace,
Free from the abundant torture of thy tongue:
Would I were with them too!

Cris. What's that, Horace?

Hor.
I now remember me, sir, of a sad fate
A cunning woman, one Sabella, sung,
When in her urn she cast my destiny,
I being but a child.

Cris. What was it, I pray thee?

Hor.
She told me I should surely never perish
By famine, poison, or the enemy's sword;
The hectic fever, cough, or pleurisy,
Should never hurt me, nor the tardy gout:
But in my time, I should be once surprised
By a strong tedious talker, that should vex
And almost bring me to consumption:
Therefore, if I were wise, she warn'd me shun
All such long-winded monsters as my bane;
For if I could but 'scape that one discourser,
I might no doubt prove an old aged man.--
By your leave, Sir. [Going.

Cris. Tut, tut; abandon this idle humour, 'tis nothing but
melancholy. 'Fore Jove, now I think on't, I am to appear in court
here, to answer to one that has me in suit: sweet Horace, go with
me, this is my hour; if I neglect it, the law proceeds against me.
Thou art familiar with these things; prithee, if thou lov'st me,
go.

Hor.
Now, let me die, sir, if I know your laws,
Or have the power to stand still half so long
In their loud courts, as while a case is argued.
Besides, you know, sir, where I am to go.
And the necessity---

Cris. 'Tis true.

Hor. I hope the hour of my release be come: he will, upon this
consideration, discharge me, sure.

Cris. Troth, I am doubtful what I may best do, whether to leave
thee or my affairs, Horace.

Hor. O Jupiter! me, sir, me, by any means; I beseech you, me, sir.

Cris. No, faith, I'll ventur