SIR RADERIC.  Precious coals! thou a man of worship and justice too?  It’s even so, he is either a madman or a conjuror.  It were well if his words were examined, to see if they be the Queen’s or no.

PHANTASMA.
Nunc si nos audis, tu qui es divinus Apollo,
Dic mihi, qui nummos non habet, unde petat?

AMORETTO. 
I am still haunted with these needy Latinist fellows.—­The best counsel
I can give is, to be gone.

PHANTASMA.
Quod peto da, Caie; non peto consilium.

AMORETTO. 
Fellow, look to your brains; you are mad, you are mad.

PHANTASMA.
Semel insanivimus omnes.

AMORETTO.  Master Recorder, is it not a shame that a gallant cannot walk the street quietly for needy fellows, and that, after there is a statute come out against begging? [He strikes his breast.

PHANTASMA.
Pectora percussit, pectus quoque robora fiunt.

RECORDER. 
I warrant you, they are some needy graduates; the university breaks wind
twice a year, and let’s fly such as these are.

INGENIOSO.  So ho, Master Recorder.  You that are one of the devil’s fellow-commoners; one that sizeth the devil’s butteries, sins, and perjuries very lavishly; one that are so dear to Lucifer, that he never puts you out of commons for nonpayment; you that live, like a sumner, upon the sins of the people; you whose vocation serves to enlarge the territories of hell that, but for you, had been no bigger than a pair of stocks or a pillory; you, that hate a scholar because he descries your ass’s ears; you that are a plague-stuffed cloak-bag of all iniquity, which the grand serving-man of hell will one day truss up behind him, and carry to his smoky wardrobe.

RECORDER. 
What frantic fellow art thou, that art possessed with the spirit of
malediction?

FUROR. 
Vile, muddy clod of base, unhallowed clay,
Thou slimy-sprighted, unkind Saracen,
When thou wert born, Dame Nature cast her calf;
For age and time hath made thee a great ox,
And now thy grinding jaws devour quite
The fodder due to us of heavenly spright.

PHANTASMA.
Nefasto te posuit die,
Quicunque primum, et sacrilega manu
Produxit arbos in nepotum
Perniciem obpropriumque pugi.

INGENIOSO.  I pray you, Monsieur Ploidon, of what university was the first lawyer of?  None, forsooth:  for your law is ruled by reason, and not by art; great reason, indeed, that a Polydenist should be mounted on a trapped palfry with a round velvet dish on his head, to keep warm the broth of his wit, and a long gown that makes him look like a Cedant arma togae, whilst the poor Aristotelians walk in a short cloak and a close Venetian hose, hard by the oyster-wife; and the silly poet goes muffled in his cloak to escape the counter.  And you, Master Amoretto, that art the chief carpenter of sonnets, a privileged vicar for the lawless marriage of ink and paper, you that are good for nothing but to commend in a set speech, to colour the quantity of your mistress’s stool, and swear it is most sweet civet; it’s fine, when that puppet-player Fortune must put such a Birchen-Lane post in so good a suit, such an ass in so good fortune!