He that not trusts me, having vowed thus much,
But’s angry for the captain, still:  is such. 
Now for the players, it is true, I tax’d them,
And yet but some; and those so sparingly,
As all the rest might have sat still unquestion’d,
Had they but had the wit or conscience
To think well of themselves.  But impotent, they
Thought each man’s vice belong’d to their whole tribe;
And much good do’t them!  What they have done ’gainst me,
I am not moved with:  if it gave them meat,
Or got them clothes, ’tis well; that was their end. 
Only amongst them, I am sorry for
Some better natures, by the rest so drawn,
To run in that vile line.

Pol.  And is this all ! 
   Will you not answer then the libels ?

Aut.  No.

Pol.  Nor the Untrussers ?

Aut.  Neither.

Pol.  Y’are undone then.

Aut.  With whom?

Pol.  The world.

Aut.  The bawd!

Pol.  It will be taken
   To be stupidity or tameness in you.

Aut. 
   But they that have incensed me, can in soul
   Acquit me of that guilt.  They know I dare
   To spurn or baflle them, or squirt their eyes
   With ink or urine; or I could do worse,
   Arm’d with Archilochus’ fury, write Iambics,
   Should make the desperate lashers hang themselves;
   Rhime them to death, as they do Irish rats
   In drumming tunes.  Or, living, I could stamp
   Their foreheads with those deep and public brands,
   That the whole company of barber-surgeon a
   Should not take off with all their art and plasters. 
   And these my prints should last, still to be read
   In their pale fronts; when, what they write ’gainst me
   Shall, like a figure drawn in water, fleet,
   And the poor wretched papers be employed
   To clothe tobacco, or some cheaper drug: 
   This I could do, and make them infamous. 
   But, to what end? when their own deeds have mark’d ’em;
   And that I know, within his guilty breast
   Each slanderer bears a whip that shall torment him
   Worse than a million of these temporal plagues: 
   Which to pursue, were but a feminine humour,
   And far beneath the dignity of man.

Nas. 
   ’Tis true; for to revenge their injuries,
   Were to confess you felt them.  Let them go,
   And use the treasure of the fool, their tongues,
   Who makes his gain, by speaking worst of beat.

Pol.  O, but they lay particular imputations—­

Aut.  As what?

Pol.  That all your writing is mere railing.

Aut.  Ha? 
   If all the salt in the old comedy
   Should be so censured, or the sharper wit
   Of the bold satire termed scolding rage,
   What age could then compare with those for buffoons? 
   What should be said of Aristophanes,
   Persius, or Juvenal, whose names we now
   So glorify in schools, at least pretend it?—–­
   Have they no other?