t Domitian-like, 165
And all his base, obsequious minions
When they were catching though it were but flyes),
Besotted with their pezzants love of gaine,
Rusting at home, and on each other preying,
Are for their greatnesse but the greater slaves, 170
And none is noble but who scrapes and saves.

_Bal._ Tis base, tis base; and yet they thinke them high.

_Cler._ So children mounted on their hobby-horse
Thinke they are riding, when with wanton toile
They beare what should beare them. A man may well 175
Compare them to those foolish great-spleen'd cammels,
That to their high heads beg'd of Jove hornes higher;
Whose most uncomely and ridiculous pride
When hee had satisfied, they could not use,
But where they went upright before, they stoopt, 180
And bore their heads much lower for their hornes: Simil[iter.]
As these high men doe, low in all true grace,
Their height being priviledge to all things base.
And as the foolish poet that still writ
All his most selfe-lov'd verse in paper royall, 185
Or partchment rul'd with lead, smooth'd with the pumice,
Bound richly up, and strung with crimson strings;
Never so blest as when hee writ and read
The ape-lov'd issue of his braine; and never
But joying in himselfe, admiring ever: 190
Yet in his workes behold him, and hee show'd
Like to a ditcher. So these painted men,
All set on out-side, looke upon within,
And not a pezzants entrailes you shall finde
More foule and mezel'd, nor more sterv'd of minde. 195

_Bal._ That makes their bodies fat. I faine would know
How many millions of our other Nobles
Would make one Guise. There is a true tenth Worthy,
Who, did not one act onely blemish him--

_Cler._ One act! what one?

_Bal._ One that (though yeeres past done) 200
Stickes by him still, and will distaine him ever.

_Cler._ Good heaven! wherein? what one act can you name
Suppos'd his staine that Ile not prove his luster?

_Bal._ To satisfie you, twas the Massacre.

_Cler._ The Massacre! I thought twas some such blemish. 205

_Bal._ O, it was hainous!

_Cler._ To a brutish sense,
But not a manly reason. Wee so tender
The vile part in us that the part divine
We see in hell, and shri