Hor. 
   And impudence. 
   Archer of heaven, Phoebus, take thy bow,
   And with a full-drawn shaft nail to the earth
   This Python, that I may yet run hence and live: 
   Or, brawny Hercules, do thou come down,
   And, tho’ thou mak’st it up thy thirteenth labour,
   Rescue me from this hydra of discourse here.
                                       [Enter Fuscus Aristius. 
Ari.  Horace, well met.

Hor. 
   O welcome, my reliever;
   Aristius, as thou lov’st me, ransom me.

Ari.  What ail’st thou, man?

Hor. 
   ’Death, I am seized on here
   By a land remora; I cannot stir,
   Nor move, but as he pleases.

Cris.  Wilt thou go, Horace?

Hor. 
   Heart! he cleaves to me like Alcides’ shirt,
   Tearing my flesh and sinews:  O, I’ve been vex’d
   And tortured with him beyond forty fevers. 
   For Jove’s sake, find some means to take me from him.

Ari.  Yes, I will;—­but I’ll go first and tell Mecaenas. [Aside.

Cris.  Come, shall we go?

Ari.  The jest will make his eyes run, i’faith. [Aside.

Hor.  Nay, Aristius!

Ari.  Farewell, Horace. [Going.

Hor.  ’Death! will he leave me?  Fuscus Aristius! do you hear?  Gods of Rome!  You said you had somewhat to say to me in private.

Ari.  Ay, but I see you are now employed with that gentleman; ’twere offence to trouble you; I’ll take some fitter opportunity:  farewell. [Exit.

Hor. 
   Mischief and torment!  O my soul and heart,
   How are you cramp’d with anguish!  Death itself
   Brings not the like convulsions, O, this day! 
   That ever I should view thy tedious face.—–­

Cris.  Horace, what passion, what humour is this?

Hor. 
   Away, good prodigy, afllict me not. 
   A friend, and mock me thus!  Never was man
   So left under the axe.—–­
                                       [Enter Minos with two Lictors.

How now?

Min.  That’s he in the embroidered hat, there, with the ash-colour’d feather:  his name is Laberius Crispinus.

Lict.  Laberius Crispinus, I arrest you in the emperor’s name.

Cris.  Me, sir! do you arrest me?

Lice.  Ay, sir, at the suit of master Minos the apothecary.
                                                    [Exit hastily. 
Hor.  Thanks, great Apollo, I will not slip thy favour offered me in
my escape, for my fortunes.

Cris.  Master Minos!  I know no master

Minos.  Where’s Horace?  Horace!  Horace!

Min.  Sir, do not you know me?

Cris.  O yes, I know you, master Minos; cry you mercy.  But Horace? 
God’s me, is he gone?

Min.  Ay, and so would you too, if you knew how.—­Officer, look to him.