Hor. 
   They are somewhat bitter, sir, but very wholesome. 
   Take yet another; so:  stand by, they’ll work anon.

Tib.  Romans, return to your several seats:  lictors, bring forward the urn; and set the accused to the bar.

Tuc.  Quickly, you whoreson egregious varlets; come forward.  What! shall we sit all day upon you?  You make no more haste now, than a beggar upon pattens; or a physician to a patient that has no money, you pilchers.

Tib.  Rufus Laberius Crispinus, and Demetrius Fannius, hold up your hands.  You have, according to the Roman custom, put yourselves upon trial to the urn, for divers and sundry calumnies, whereof you have, before this time, been indicted, and are now presently arraigned:  prepare yourselves to hearken to the verdict of your tryers.  Caius Cilnius Mecaenas pronounceth you, by this hand-writing, guilty.  Cornelius Gallus, guilty.  Pantilius Tucca—­

Tuc.  Parcel-guilty, I.

Dem. 
   He means himself; for it was he indeed
   Suborn’d us to the calumny.

Tuc.  I, you whoreson cantharides! was it I?

Dem.  I appeal to your conscience, captain.

Tib.  Then you confess it now?

Dem.  I do, and crave the mercy of the court.

Tib.  What saith Crispinus?

Cris.  O, the captain, the captain—–­

Bor.  My physic begins to work with my patient, I see.

Virg.  Captain, stand forth and answer.

Tuc.  Hold thy peace, poet praetor:  I appeal from thee to Caesar, I.
Do me right, royal Caesar.

Caes. 
   Marry, and I will, sir.—–­Lictors, gag him; do. 
   And put a case of vizards o’er his head,
   That he may look bifronted, as he speaks.

Tuc.  Gods and fiends!  Caesar! thou wilt not, Caesar, wilt thou?  Away, you whoreson vultures; away.  You think I am a dead corps now, because Caesar is disposed to jest with a man of mark, or so.  Hold your hook’d talons out of my flesh, you inhuman harpies.  Go to, do’t.  What! will the royal Augustus cast away a gentleman of worship, a captain and a commander, for a couple of condemn’d caitiff calumnious cargos?

Caes.  Dispatch, lictors.

Tuc.  Caesar! [The vizards are put upon him.

Caes.  Forward, Tibullus.

Virg.  Demand what cause they had to malign Horace.

Dem.  In troth, no great cause, not I, I must confess; but that he kept better company, for the most part, than I; and that better men loved him than loved me; and that his writings thrived better than mine, and were better liked and graced:  nothing else.

Virg. 
   Thus envious souls repine at others’ good.

Hor. 
   If this be all, faith, I forgive thee freely. 
   Envy me still, so long as Virgil loves me,
   Gallus, Tibullus, and the best-best Caesar,
   My dear Mecaenas; while these, with many more,
   Whose names I wisely slip, shall think me worthy
   Their honour’d and adored society,
   And read and love, prove and applaud my poems;
   I would not wish but such as you should spite them.