Hist.  No, I assure you, captain.

Tuc.  Go; and be acquainted with him then; he is a gentleman, parcel poet, you slave; his father was a man of worship, I tell thee.  Go, he pens high, lofty, in a new stalking strain, bigger than half the rhymers in the town again; he was born to fill thy mouth, Minotaurus, he was, he will teach thee to tear and rand.  Rascal, to him, cherish his muse, go; thou hast forty-forty shillings, I mean, stinkard; give him in earnest, do, he shall write for thee, slave!  If he pen for thee once, thou shalt not need to travel with thy pumps full of gravel any more, after a blind jade and a hamper, and stalk upon boards and barrel heads to an old crack’d trumpet.

Hist.  Troth, I think I have not so much about me, captain.

Tuc.  It’s no matter; give him what thou hast, stiff-toe, I’ll give my word for the rest; though it lack a shilling or two, it skills not:  go, thou art an honest shifter; I’ll have the statute repeal’d for thee.—­Minos, I must tell thee, Minos, thou hast dejected yon gentleman’s spirit exceedingly; dost observe, dost note, little Minos?

Min.  Yes, sir.

Tuc.  Go to then, raise, recover, do; suffer him not to droop in prospect of a player, a rogue, a stager:  put twenty into his hand—­twenty sesterces I mean,—­and let nobody see; go, do it—­the work shall commend itself; ye Minos, I’ll pay.

Min.  Yes, forsooth, captain.

2 Pyr.  Do not we serve a notable shark? [Aside.

Tuc.  And what new matters have you now afoot, sirrah, ha?  I would fain come with my cockatrice one day, and see a play, if I knew when there were a good bawdy one; but they say you have nothing but humours, Revels, and satires, that gird and f—­t at the time, you slave.

Hist.  No, I assure you, captain, not we.  They are on the other side of Tyber:  we have as much ribaldry in our plays as can be, as you would wish, captain:  all the sinners in the suburbs come and applaud our action daily.

Tuc.  I hear you’ll bring me o’ the stage there; you’ll play me, they say; I shall be presented by a sort of copper-laced scoundrels of you:  life of Pluto! an you stage me, stinkard, your mansions shall sweat for’t, your tabernacles, varlets, your Globes, and your Triumphs.

Hist.  Not we, by Phoebus, captain; do not do us imputation without desert.

Tuc.  I will not, my good twopenny rascal; reach me thy neuf.  Dost hear? what wilt thou give me a week for my brace of beagles here, my little point-trussers? you shall have them act among ye.—­I Sirrah, you, pronounce.—­Thou shalt hear him speak in King Darius’ doleful strain.

1 Pyr. 
   O doleful days!  O direful deadly dump ! 
   O wicked world, and worldly wickedness ! 
   How can I hold my fist from crying, thump,
   In rue of this right rascal wretchedness!

Tuc.  In an amorous vein now, sirrah:  peace!