face, look--he has not his face punchtfull of
eyelet-holes, like the cover of a warming-pan."

Joseph Warton has oddly remarked that most of our poets were handsome
men. Jonson, however, was not poetical on that score; though his bust
is said to resemble Menander's.

Such are some of the personalities with which Decker recriminated.

Horace is thrown into many ludicrous situations. He is told that
"admonition is good meat." Various persons bring forward their
accusations; and Horace replies that they envy him,

Because I hold more worthy company.

The greatness of Ben's genius is by no means denied by his rivals;
and Decker makes _Fannius_ reply, with noble feelings, and in an
elevated strain of poetry:--

Good Horace, no! my cheeks do blush for thine,
As often as thou speakst so; where one true
And nobly virtuous spirit, for thy best part
Loves thee, I wish one, ten; even from my heart!
I make account, I put up as deep share
In any good man's love, which thy worth earns,
As thou thyself; we envy not to see
Thy friends with bays to crown thy poesy.
No, here the gall lies;--We, that know what stuff
Thy very heart is made of, know the stalk
On which thy learning grows, and can give life
To thy, once dying, baseness; yet must we
Dance anticke on your paper--.
But were thy warp'd soul put in a new mould,
I'd wear thee as a jewel set in gold.

To which one adds, that "jewels, master Horace, must be hanged, you
know." This "Whip of Men," with Asinius his admirer, are brought to
court, transformed into satyrs, and bound together: "not lawrefied,
but nettle-fied;" crowned with a wreath of nettles.

With stinging-nettles crown his stinging wit.

Horace is called on to swear, after Asinius had sworn to give up his
"Ningle."

"Now, master Horace, you must be a more horrible swearer; for your
oath must be, like your wits, of many colours; and like a broker's
book, of many parcels."

Horace offers to swear till his hairs stand up on end, to be rid of
this sting. "Oh, this sting!" alluding to the nettles. "'Tis not your
sting of conscience, is it?" asks one. In the inventory of his oaths,
there is poignant satire, with strong humour; and it probably exhibits
some foibles in the literary habits of our bard.

He swears "Not to hang himself, even if he thought any man could write
plays as well as himself; not to bombast out a new play with the old
linings of jests stolen from the _Te