The Chaldee wise, th’Arabian physical,
The Roman eloquent and Tuscan grave,
The braving Spanish and the smooth-tongu’d French: 
These precious jewels that adorn thine ears,
All from my mouth’s rich cabinet are stolen. 
How oft hast thou been chain’d unto my tongue,
Hang’d at my lips, and ravish’d with my words;
So that a speech fair-feather’d could not fly,
But thy ear’s pitfall caught it instantly? 
But now, O heavens!

AUD.  O heavens! thou wrong’st me much,
Thou wrong’st me much thus falsely to upbraid me: 
Had not I granted thee the use of hearing,
That sharp-edged tongue whetted against her master,
Those puffing lungs, those teeth, those drowsy lips,
That scalding throat, those nostrils full of ire,
Thy palate, proper instrument of speech,
Like to the winged chanters of the wood,
Uttering nought else but idle sifflements,[173]
Tunes without sense, words inarticulate,
Had ne’er been able t’ have abus’d me thus. 
Words are thy children, but of my begetting.

LIN.  Perfidious liar, how can I endure thee! 
Call’st my unspotted chastity in question? 
O, could I use the breath mine anger spends,
I’d make thee know—­

AUD.  Heav’ns look on my distress,
Defend me from this railing viperess! 
For if I stay, her words’ sharp vinegar
Will fret me through.  Lingua, I must be gone: 
I hear one call me more than earnestly.
                                [Exit AUDITUS.

LIN.  May the loud cannoning of thunderbolts,
Screeking of wolves, howling of tortur’d ghosts,
Pursue thee still, and fill thy amaz’d ears
With cold astonishment and horrid fears! 
O, how these senses muffle Common Sense! 
And more and more with pleasing objects strive
To dull his judgment and pervert his will
To their behests:  who, were he not so wrapp’d
I’the dusky clouds of their dark policies,
Would never suffer right to suffer wrong. 
Fie, Lingua, wilt thou now degenerate? 
Art not a woman? dost not love revenge? 
Delightful speeches, sweet persuasions,
I have this long time us’d to get my right. 
My right—­that is, to make the senses six;
And have both name and power with the rest. 
Oft have I season’d savoury periods
With sugar’d words, to delude Gustus’ taste,
And oft embellish’d my entreative phrase
With smelling flow’rs of vernant rhetoric,
Limning and flashing it with various dyes,
To draw proud Visus to me by the eyes;
And oft perfum’d my petitory[174] style
With civet-speech, t’entrap Olfactus’ nose;
And clad myself in silken eloquence,
To allure the nicer touch of Tactus’ hand. 
But all’s become lost labour, and my cause
Is still procrastinated:  therefore now,
Hence, ye base offspring of a broken mind,
Supple entreaties and smooth flatteries: 
Go kiss the love-sick lips of puling gulls,[175]