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
Cris. And then, for my singing, Hermogenes himself envies me, that is your only master of music you have in Rome.
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!
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.
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---
Hor. I hope the hour of my release be come: he will, upon this consideration, discharge me, sure.
Cris. Troth, I am doubtful what I may best do, whether to leave thee or my affairs, Horace.
Hor. O Jupiter! me, sir, me, by any means; I beseech you, me, sir.
Cris. No, faith, I'll venture those now; thou shalt see I love thee--some, Horace.
Hor. Nay, then I am desperate: I follow you, sir. 'Tis hard contending with a man that overcomes thus.
Cris. And how deals Mecaenas with thee? liberally, ha? is he open handed? bountiful?