Hor.  That may be, sir, I but guess’d at his name by his sign.  But your Minos is a judge too, sir.

Cris I protest to thee, Horace, (do but taste me once,) if I do know myself, and mine own virtues truly, thou wilt not make that esteem of Varius, or Virgil, or Tibullus, or any of ’em indeed, as now in thy ignorance thou dost; which I am content to forgive:  I would fain see which of these could pen more verses in a day, or with more facility, than I; or that could court his mistress, kiss her hand, make better sport with her fan or her dog

Hor.  I cannot bail you yet, sir.

Cris.  Or that could move his body more gracefully, or dance better; you should see me, were it not in the street

Hor.  Nor yet.

Cris.  Why, I have been a reveller, and at my cloth of silver suit and my long stocking, in my time, and will be again

Hor.  If you may be trusted, sir.

Cris.  And then, for my singing, Hermogenes himself envies me, that is your only master of music you have in Rome.

Hor.  Is your mother living, sir?

Cris.  Ay! convert thy thoughts to somewhat else, I pray thee.

Hor.  You have much of the mother in you, sir:  Your father is dead?

Cris.  Ay, I thank Jove, and my grandfather too, and all my kinsfolks, and well composed in their urns.

Hor. 
   The more their happiness, that rest in peace,
   Free from the abundant torture of thy tongue: 
   Would I were with them too!

Cris.  What’s that, Horace?

Hor. 
   I now remember me, sir, of a sad fate
   A cunning woman, one Sabella, sung,
   When in her urn she cast my destiny,
   I being but a child.

Cris.  What was it, I pray thee?

Hor. 
   She told me I should surely never perish
   By famine, poison, or the enemy’s sword;
   The hectic fever, cough, or pleurisy,
   Should never hurt me, nor the tardy gout: 
   But in my time, I should be once surprised
   By a strong tedious talker, that should vex
   And almost bring me to consumption: 
   Therefore, if I were wise, she warn’d me shun
   All such long-winded monsters as my bane;
   For if I could but ’scape that one discourser,
   I might no doubt prove an old aged man.—­
   By your leave, Sir. [Going.

Cris.  Tut, tut; abandon this idle humour, ’tis nothing but melancholy.  ’Fore Jove, now I think on’t, I am to appear in court here, to answer to one that has me in suit:  sweet Horace, go with me, this is my hour; if I neglect it, the law proceeds against me.  Thou art familiar with these things; prithee, if thou lov’st me, go.

Hor. 
   Now, let me die, sir, if I know your laws,
   Or have the power to stand still half so long
   In their loud courts, as while a case is argued. 
   Besides, you know, sir, where I am to go. 
   And the necessity—–­