Tuc.  Thou twang’st right, little Horace:  they be indeed a couple of chap-fall’n curs.  Come, we of the bench, let’s rise to the urn, and condemn them quickly.

Virg. 
   Before you go together, worthy Romans,
   We are to tender our opinion;
   And give you those instructions, that may add
   Unto your even judgment in the cause: 
   Which thus we do commence.  First, you must know,
   That where there is a true and perfect merit,
   There can be no dejection; and the scorn
   Of humble baseness, oftentimes so works
   In a high soul, upon the grosser spirit,
   That to his bleared and offended sense,
   There seems a hideous fault blazed in the object;
   When only the disease is in his eyes. 
   Here-hence it comes our Horace now stands tax’d
   Of impudence, self-love, and arrogance,
   By those who share no merit in themselves;
   And therefore think his portion is as small. 
   For they, from their own guilt, assure their souls,
   If they should confidently praise their works,
   In them it would appear inflation: 
   Which, in a full and well digested man,
   Cannot receive that foul abusive name,
   But the fair title of erection. 
   And, for his true use of translating men,
   It still hath been a work of as much palm,
   In clearest judgments, as to invent or make,
   His sharpness,—–­that is most excusable;
   As being forced out of a suffering virtue,
   Oppressed with the license of the time:—–­
   And howsoever fools or jerking pedants,
   Players, or suchlike buffoon barking wits,
   May with their beggarly and barren trash
   Tickle base vulgar ears, in their despite;
   This, like Jove’s thunder, shall their pride control,
   “The honest satire hath the happiest soul.”

   Now, Romans, you have heard our thoughts;
      withdraw when you please.

Tib.  Remove the accused from the bar.

Tuc.  Who holds the urn to us, ha?  Fear nothing, I’ll quit you, mine honest pitiful stinkards; I’ll do’t.

Cris.  Captain, you shall eternally girt me to you, as I am generous.

Tuc.  Go to.

Caes.  Tibullus, let there be a case of vizards privately provided; we have found a subject to bestow them on.

Tib.  It shall be done, Caesar.

Caes.  Here be words, Horace, able to bastinado a man’s ears.

Hor.  Ay. 
   Please it, great Caesar, I have pills about me,
   Mixt with the whitest kind of hellebore,
   Would give him a light vomit, that should purge
   His brain and stomach of those tumorous heats: 
   Might I have leave to minister unto him.

Caes. 
   O, be his AEsculapius, gentle Horace! 
   You shall have leave, and he shall be your patient.  Virgil,
   Use your authority, command him forth.

Virg. 
   Caesar is careful of your health, Crispinus;
   And hath himself chose a physician
   To minister unto you:  take his pills.