Like powder corns shot at the artillery-yard.

SUB. I wish you could advance your voice a little.

FACE. When you went pinn'd up in the several rags
You had raked and pick'd from dunghills, before day;
Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your kibes;
A felt of rug, and a thin threaden cloke,
That scarce would cover your no buttocks --

SUB. So, sir!

FACE. When all your alchemy, and your algebra,
Your minerals, vegetals, and animals,
Your conjuring, cozening, and your dozen of trades,
Could not relieve your corps with so much linen
Would make you tinder, but to see a fire;
I gave you countenance, credit for your coals,
Your stills, your glasses, your materials;
Built you a furnace, drew you customers,
Advanced all your black arts; lent you, beside,
A house to practise in --

SUB. Your master's house!

FACE. Where you have studied the more thriving skill
Of bawdry since.

SUB. Yes, in your master's house.
You and the rats here kept possession.