FUROR. 
Now by the wing of nimble Mercury,
By my Thalia’s silver-sounding harp,
By that celestial fire within my brain,
That gives a living genius to my lines,
Howe’er my dulled intellectual
Capers less nimbly than it did afore;
Yet will I play a hunts-up to my muse,
And make her mount from out her sluggish nest. 
As high as is the highest sphere in heaven. 
Awake, you paltry trulls of Helicon,
Or, by this light, I’ll swagger with you straight: 
You grandsire Phoebus, with your lovely eye,
The firmament’s eternal vagabond,
The heaven’s promoter, that doth peep and pry
Into the acts of mortal tennis-balls,
Inspire me straight with some rare delicies,[101]
Or I’ll dismount thee from thy radiant coach,
And make thee poor[102] Cutchy here on earth.

PHANTASMA.
Currus auriga paterni.

INGENIOSO.  Nay, prythee, good Furor, do not rove in rhymes before thy time; thou hast a very terrible, roaring muse, nothing but squibs and fine jerks:  quiet thyself a while, and hear thy charge.

PHANTASMA.
Huc ades, haec animo concipe dicta tuo.

INGENIOSO.  Let us on to our device, our plot, our project.  That old Sir Raderic, that new printed compendium of all iniquity, that hath not aired his country chimney once in three winters; he that loves to live in an old corner here at London, and affect an old wench in a nook; one that loves to live in a narrow room, that he may with more facility in the dark light upon his wife’s waiting-maid; one that loves alike a short sermon and a long play; one that goes to a play, to a whore, to his bed, in circle:  good for nothing in the world but to sweat nightcaps and foul fair lawn shirts, feed a few foggy servingmen, and prefer dunces to livings—­this old Sir Raderic, Furor, it shall be thy task to cudgel with thy thick, thwart terms; marry, at the first, give him some sugarcandy terms,[103] and then, if he will not untie purse-strings of his liberality, sting him with terms laid in aquafortis and gunpowder.

FUROR.
In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas. 
The servile current of my sliding verse
Gentle shall run into his thick-skinn’d ears;
Where it shall dwell like a magnifico,
Command his slimy sprite to honour me
For my high, tiptoe, strutting poesy: 
But if his stars hath favour’d him so ill,
As to debar him by his dunghill thoughts,
Justly to esteem my verses’ lowting pitch,
If his earth-rooting snout shall ’gin to scorn
My verse that giveth immortality;
Then Bella per Emathios—­

PHANTASMA.
Furor arma ministrat.

FUROR. 
I’ll shake his heart upon my verses’ point,
Rip out his guts with riving poniard,
Quarter his credit with a bloody quill.

PHANTASMA.
Calami, atramentum, charta, libelli,
Sunt semper studiis arma parata tuis.

INGENIOSO. 
Enough, Furor, we know thou art a nimble swaggerer with a goose-quill. 
Now for you, Phantasma:  leave trussing your points, and listen.