INGENIOSO.
Let us on to our device, our plot, our project. That old Sir Raderic,
that new printed compendium of all iniquity, that hath not aired his
country chimney once in three winters; he that loves to live in an old
corner here at London, and affect an old wench in a nook; one that loves
to live in a narrow room, that he may with more facility in the dark
light upon his wife's waiting-maid; one that loves alike a short sermon
and a long play; one that goes to a play, to a whore, to his bed, in
circle: good for nothing in the world but to sweat nightcaps and foul
fair lawn shirts, feed a few foggy servingmen, and prefer dunces to
livings--this old Sir Raderic, Furor, it shall be thy task to cudgel
with thy thick, thwart terms; marry, at the first, give him some
sugarcandy terms,[103] and then, if he will not untie purse-strings of
his liberality, sting him with terms laid in aquafortis and gunpowder.

FUROR.
_In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas_.
The servile current of my sliding verse
Gentle shall run into his thick-skinn'd ears;
Where it shall dwell like a magnifico,
Command his slimy sprite to honour me
For my high, tiptoe, strutting poesy:
But if his stars hath favour'd him so ill,
As to debar him by his dunghill thoughts,
Justly to esteem my verses' lowting pitch,
If his earth-rooting snout shall 'gin to scorn
My verse that giveth immortality;
Then _Bella per Emathios_--

PHANTASMA.
_Furor arma ministrat_.

FUROR.
I'll shake his heart upon my verses' point,
Rip out his guts with riving poniard,
Quarter his credit with a bloody quill.

PHANTASMA.
_Calami, atramentum, charta, libelli,
Sunt semper studiis arma parata tuis_.

INGENIOSO.
Enough, Furor, we know thou art a nimble swaggerer with a goose-quill.
Now for you, Phantasma: leave trussing your points, and listen.

PHANTASMA.
_Omne tulit punctum_--

INGENIOSO.
Mark you, Amoretto, Sir Raderic's son, to him shall thy piping poetry
and sugar-ends of verses be directed: he is one that will draw out his
pocket-glass thrice in a walk; one that dreams in a night of nothing but
musk and civet, and talks of nothing all day long but his hawk, his
hound, and his mistress; one that more admires the good wrinkle of a
boot, the curious crinkling of a silk-stocking, than all the wit in the
world; one that loves no scholar but him whose tired ears can endure
half a day together his fly-blown sonnets of his mistress, and her
loving, pretty creatures