Gal. It's the name of Horace his witch, as I remember.

Tib. Why, the ditty's all borrowed; 'tis Horace's: hang him,
plagiary!

Tut. How! he borrow of Horace? he shall pawn himself to ten
brokers first. Do you hear, Poetasters? I know you to be men of
worship--He shall write with Horace, for a talent! and let Mecaenas
and his whole college of critics take his part: thou shalt do't,
young Phoebus; thou shalt, Phaeton, thou shalt.

Dem. Alas, sir, Horace! he is a mere sponge; nothing but Humours
and observation; he goes up and down sucking from every society,
and when he comes home squeezes himself dry again. I know him, I.

Tuc. Thou say'st true, my poor poetical fury, he will pen all he
knows. A sharp thorny-tooth, a satirical rascal, By him; he carries
hay in his horn: he will sooner lose his best friend, than his
least jest. What he once drops upon paper, against a man, lives
eternally to upbraid him in the mouth of every slave,
tankard-bearer, or waterman; not a bawd, or a boy that comes from
the bake-house, but shall point at him: 'tis all dog, and scorpion;
he carries poison in his teeth, and a sting in his tail. Fough!
body of Jove! I'll have the slave whipt one of these days for his
Satires and his Humours, by one cashier'd clerk or another.

Cris. We'll undertake him, captain.

Dem. Ay, and tickle him i'faith, for his arrogancy and his