FACE. Hang thee, collier,
And all thy pots, and pans, in picture, I will,
Since thou hast moved me --

DOL. O, this will o'erthrow all.

FACE. Write thee up bawd in Paul's, have all thy tricks
Of cozening with a hollow cole, dust, scrapings,
Searching for things lost, with a sieve and sheers,
Erecting figures in your rows of houses,
And taking in of shadows with a glass,
Told in red letters; and a face cut for thee,
Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's.

DOL. Are you sound?
Have you your senses, masters?

FACE. I will have
A book, but barely reckoning thy impostures,
Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to printers.

SUB. Away, you trencher-rascal!

FACE. Out, you dog-leech!
The vomit of all prisons --

DOL. Will you be
Your own destructions, gentlemen?

FACE. Still spew'd out