Enter TUCCA, CRISPINUS, and PYRGUS.
Tuc. What's become of my little punk, Venus, and the poultfoot
stinkard, her husband, ha?
Cris. O; they are rid home in the coach, as fast as the wheels can
run.
Tuc. God Jupiter is banished, I hear, and his cockatrice Juno
lock'd up. 'Heart, an all the poetry in Parnassus get me to be a
player again, I'll sell 'em my share for a sesterce. But this is
Humours, Horace, that goat-footed envious slave; he's turn'd fawn
now; an informer, the rogue! 'tis he has betray'd us all. Did you
not see him with the emperor crouching?
Cris. Yes.
Tuc. Well, follow me. Thou shalt libel, and I'll cudgel the rascal.
Boy, provide me a truncheon. Revenge shall gratulate him, tam
Marti, quam Mercurio.
Pyr. Ay, but master, take heed how you give this out; Horace is a
man of the sword.
Cris. 'Tis true, in troth; they say he's valiant.
[Horace passes over the stage.
Tuc. Valiant? so is mine a--. Gods and fiends! I'll blow him into
air when I meet him next: he dares not fight with a puck-fist.
Pyr. Master, he comes!
Tuc. Where? Jupiter save thee, my good poet, my noble prophet, my
little fat Horace.--I scorn to beat the rogue in the court; and I
saluted him thus fair, because he should suspect nothing, the
rascal. Come, we'll go see how far forward our journeyman is toward
the untrussing of him.
[Exeunt.