Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar, and thy gall
Turns all thy blood to poyson, which is cause
Of that toad-poole that stands in thy complexion,
And makes thee with a cold and earthy moisture,
(Which is the damme of putrifaction) 470
As plague to thy damn'd pride, rot as thou liv'st:
To study calumnies and treacheries;
To thy friends slaughters like a scrich-owle sing,
And to all mischiefes--but to kill the King.

_Buss._ So! have you said?

_Mons._ How thinkest thou? Doe I flatter? 475
Speak I not like a trusty friend to thee?

_Buss._ That ever any man was blest withall.
So here's for me! I think you are (at worst)
No devill, since y'are like to be no King;
Of which with any friend of yours Ile lay 480
This poore stillado here gainst all the starres,
I, and 'gainst all your treacheries, which are more:
That you did never good, but to doe ill,
But ill of all sorts, free and for it selfe:
That (like a murthering peece making lanes in armies, 485
The first man of a rank, the whole rank falling)
If you have wrong'd one man, you are so farre
From making him amends that all his race,
Friends, and associates fall into your chace:
That y'are for perjuries the very prince 490
Of all intelligencers; and your voice
Is like an easterne winde, that, where it flies,
Knits nets of catterpillars, with which you catch
The prime of all the fruits the kingdome yeelds:
That your politicall head is the curst fount 495
Of all the violence, rapine, cruelty,
Tyrannie, & atheisme flowing through the realme:
That y'ave a tongue so scandalous, 'twill cut
The purest christall, and a breath that will
Kill to that wall a spider; you will jest 500
With God, and your soule to the Devill tender
For lust; kisse horror, and with death engender:
That your foule body is a Lernean fenne
Of all the maladies breeding in all men:
That you are utterly without a soule; 505
And for your life, the thred of that was spunne
When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock
Fall in the durt; and Lachesis still drawes it,
Dipping her twisting fingers in a boule
Defil'd, and crown'd with vertues forced soule: 510
And lastly (which I must for gratitude
Eve