The Poetaster by Ben Jonson
page 115 of 324 (35%)
page 115 of 324 (35%)
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impudence, in commending his own things; and for his translating, I
can trace him, i'faith. O, he is the most open fellow living; I had as lieve as a new suit I were at it. Tuc. Say no more then, but do it; 'tis the only way to get thee a new suit; sting him, my little neufts; I'll give you instructions: I'll be your intelligencer; we'll all join, and hang upon him like so many horse-leeches, the players and all. We shall sup together, soon; and then we'll conspire, i'faith. Gal. O that Horace had stayed still here! Tib. So would not I; for both these would have turn'd Pythagoreans then. Gal. What, mute? Tib. Ay, as fishes, i'faith: come, ladies, shall we go? Cyth. We wait you, sir. But mistress Chloe asks, if you have not a god to spare for this gentleman. Gal. Who, captain Tucca? Cyth. Ay, he. Gal. Yes, if we can invite him along, he shall be Mars. Chloe. Has Mars any thing to do with Venus? |
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