Bor.  No, sir;—–­but I am in some fear I must now. [Aside.

Cris.  I’ll tell thee some, if I can but recover them, I composed even now of a dressing I saw a jeweller’s wife wear, who indeed was a jewel herself:  I prefer that kind of tire now; what’s thy opinion, Horace?

Hor.  With your silver bodkin, it does well, sir.

Cris.  I cannot tell; but it stirs me more than all your court-curls, or your spangles, or your tricks:  I affect not these high gable-ends, these Tuscan tops, nor your coronets, nor your arches, nor your pyramids; give me a fine, sweet-little delicate dressing with a bodkin, as you say; and a mushroom for all your other ornatures!

Hor.  Is it not possible to make an escape from him? [Aside.

Cris.  I have remitted my verses all this while; I think I have forgot them.

Hor.  Here’s he could wish you had else. [Aside.

Chris. Pray Jove I can entreat them of my memory!

Hor.  You put your memory to too much trouble, sir.

Cris.  No, sweet Horace, we must not have thee think so.

Hor. 
   I cry you mercy; then they are my ears
   That must be tortured:  well, you must have patience, ears.

Cris.  Pray thee, Horace, observe.

Hor.  Yes, sir; your satin sleeve begins to fret at the rug that is underneath it, I do observe:  and your ample velvet bases are not without evident stains of a hot disposition naturally.

Cris.  O—­I’ll dye them into another colour, at pleasure:  How many yards of velvet dost thou think they contain?

Hor. 
   ’Heart!  I have put him now in a fresh way
    To vex me more:—–­faith, sir, your mercer’s book
    Will tell you With more patience than I can:—–­
    For I am crost, and so’s not that, I think.

Cris. 
   ’Slight, these verses have lost me again! 
   I shall not invite them to mind, now.

Hor. 
   Rack not your thoughts, good sir; rather defer it
   To a new time; I’ll meet you at your lodging,
   Or where you please:  ’till then, Jove keep you, sir!

Cris.  Nay, gentle Horace, stay; I have it now.

Hor. 
   Yes, sir.  Apollo, Hermes, Jupiter,
   Look down upon me. [Aside.

Cris. 
   Rich was thy hap; sweet dainty cap,
             There to be placed;
   Where thy smooth black, sleek white may smack,
             And both be graced.

White is there usurp’d for her brow; her forehead:  and then sleek, as the parallel to smooth, that went before.  A kind of paranomasie, or agnomination:  do you conceive, sir?

Hor.  Excellent.  Troth, sir, I must be abrupt, and leave you.

Cris.  Why, what haste hast thou? prithee, stay a little; thou shalt not go yet, by Phoebus.

Hor.  I shall not! what remedy? fie, how I sweat with suffering!