Cris.  And then

Hor.  Pray, sir, give me leave to wipe my face a little.

Cris.  Yes, do, good Horace.

Hor. 
   Thank you, sir. 
   Death!  I must crave his leave to p—­, anon; . 
   Or that I may go hence with half my teeth: 
   I am in some such fear.  This tyranny
   Is strange, to take mine ears up by commission,
   (Whether I will or no,) and make them stalls
   To his lewd solecisms, and worded trash. 
   Happy thou, bold Bolanus, now I say;
   Whose freedom, and impatience of this fellow,
   Would, long ere this, have call’d him fool, and fool,
   And rank and tedious fool! and have flung jests
   As hard as stones, till thou hadst pelted him
   Out of the place; whilst my tame modesty
   Suffers my wit be made a solemn ass,
   To bear his fopperies—–­ [Aside.

Cris.  Horace, thou art miserably affected to be gone, I see.  But—­prithee let’s prove to enjoy thee a while.  Thou hast no business, I assure me.  Whither is thy journey directed, ha?

Hor.  Sir, I am going to visit a friend that’s sick.

Cris A friend! what is he; do not I know him?

Hor.  No, sir, you do not know him; and ’tis not the worse for him.

Cris.  What’s his name 1 where is he lodged?

Hor.  Where I shall be fearful to draw you out of your way, sir; a great way hence; pray, sir, let’s part.

Cris.  Nay, but where is’t?  I prithee say. ;

Hor.  On the far side of all Tyber yonder, by Caesar’s gardens.

Cris.  O, that’s my course directly; I am for you.  Come, go; why stand’st thou?

Hor.  Yes, sir:  marry, the plague is in that part of the city; I had almost forgot to tell you, sir.

Cris.  Foh! it is no matter, I fear no pestilence; I have not offended Phoebus.

Hor. 
   I have, it seems, or else this heavy scourge
   Could ne’er have lighted on me.

Cris.  Come along.  Hor.  I am to go down some half mile this way, sir, first, to speak with his physician; and from thence to his apothecary, where I shall stay the mixing of divers drugs.

Cris.  Why, it’s all one, I have nothing to do, and I love not to be idle; I’ll bear thee company.  How call’st thou the apothecary?

Hor. 
   O that I knew a name would fright him now!—–­
   Sir, Rhadamanthus, Rhadamanthus, sir. 
   There’s one so called, is a just judge in hell,
   And doth inflict strange vengeance on all those
   That here on earth torment poor patient spirits.

Cris.  He dwells at the Three Furies, by Janus’s temple.

Hor.  Your pothecary does, sir.

Cris.  Heart, I owe him money for sweetmeats, and he has laid to arrest me, I hear:  but

Hor:  Sir, I have made a most solemn vow, I will never bail any man.

Oris.  Well then, I’ll swear, and speak him fair, if the worst come. 
But his name is Minos, not Rhadamanthus, Horace.