heir fly-blown comedies." "Ay," replies Asinius,
"and all men of my rank!" _Crispinus_, Horace calls "a light
voluptuous reveller," and _Fannius_ "the slightest cobweb-lawn piece
of a poet." Both enter, and Horace receives them with all friendship.

The scene is here conducted not without skill. Horace complains that

----------------When I dip my pen
In distill'd roses, and do strive to drain
Out of mine ink all gall--
Mine enemies, with sharp and searching eyes,
Look through and through me.
And when my lines are measured out as straight
As even parallels, 'tis strange, that still,
Still some imagine that they're drawn awry.
The error is not mine, but in their eye,
That cannot take proportions.

To the querulous satirist, _Crispinus_ replies with dignified
gravity--

Horace! to stand within the shot of galling tongues
Proves not your guilt; for, could we write on paper
Made of these turning leaves of heaven, the clouds,
Or speak with angels' tongues, yet wise men know
That some would shake the head, though saints should sing;
Some snakes must hiss, because they're born with stings.
------------Be not you grieved
If that which you mould fair, upright, and smooth,
Be screw'd awry, made crooked, lame, and vile,
By racking comments.--
So to be bit it rankles not, for Innocence
May with a feather brush off the foul wrong.
But when your _dastard wit will strike at men
In corners, and in riddles fold the vices
Of your best friends_, you must not take to heart
If they take off all gilding from their pills,
And only offer you the bitter core.--

At this the galled Horace winces. _Crispinus_ continues, that it is in
vain Horace swears, that

--------------He puts on
The office of an executioner,
Only to strike off the swoln head of sin,
Where'er you find it standing. Say you swear,
And make damnation, parcel of your oath,
That when your lashing jests make all men bleed,
Yet you whip none--court, city, country, friends,
Foes, all must smart alike.--

_Fannius_, too, joins, and shows Ben the absurd oaths he takes, when
he swears to all parties, that he does not mean them. How, then, of
five hundred and four, five hundred

Should all point with their fingers in one instant,
At one and the same man?

Horace is awkwardly placed between these two friendly remonstrants, to
whom he promises perpetual love.

Captain Tucca, a dramatic