ous as you are--

AUD. Spite of your teeth--

MEN. Never till now. Ha, ha! it works apace. [_Aside_.
Visus, I know 'tis yours; and yet methinks,
Auditus, you should have some challenge to it;
But that your title, Tactus, is so good,
Gustus, I would swear the coronet were yours:
What, will you all go brawl about a trifle?
View but the pleasant coast of Microcosm,
Is't not great pity to be rent with wars?
Is't not a shame to stain with brinish tears
The smiling cheeks of ever-cheerful peace?
Is't not far better to live quietly,
Than broil in fury of dissension?
Give me the crown, ye shall not disagree,
If I can please you. I'll play Paris' part,
And, most impartial, judge the controversy.

VIS. Sauce-box! go meddle with your lady's fan,
And prate not here.

MEN. I speak not for myself,
But for my country's sole[200] commodity.

VIS. Sirrah, be still.

MEN. Nay, and you be so hot, the devil part you!
I'll to Olfactus, and send him amongst you.
O, that I were Alecto for your sakes!
How liberally would I bestow my snakes!
[_Exit_ MENDACIO.

VIS. Tactus, upon thine honour,
I challenge thee to meet me here,
Strong as thou canst provide, in th'afternoon.

TAC. I undertake the challenge, and here's my hand,
In sign thou shalt be answered.

GUS. Tactus, I'll join with thee, on this condition
That, if we win, he that fought best of us
Shall have the crown, the other wear the robe.

TAC. Give me your hand: I like the motion.

VIS. Auditus, shall we make our forces double
Upon the same terms?

AUD. Very willingly.

VIS. Come, let's away: fear not the victory;
Right's more advantage than an host of soldiers.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

ACTUS SECUNDUS, SCAENA PRIMA.

APPETITUS, _a long, lean, raw-boned fellow,
in a soldier's coat, a sword, &c_.

MENDACIO, APPETITUS.

MEN. I long to see those hotspur Senses at it: they say they have
gallant preparations, and not unlikely, for most of the soldiers are
ready in arms, since the last field fought against their yearly enemy
Meleager[201] and his wife Acrasia; that conquest hath so fleshed them,
that no peace can hold them. But had not Meleager been sick, and
Acrasia drunk, the Senses might have whistled for the victory.

APP. Foh, what a stink of gunpowder is yonder!

MEN. Who's this? O, O, 'tis Appetitus, Gustus's hungry parasite.