Hor.
I cry you mercy; then they are my ears
That must be tortured: well, you must have patience, ears.

Cris. Pray thee, Horace, observe.

Hor. Yes, sir; your satin sleeve begins to fret at the rug that is
underneath it, I do observe: and your ample velvet bases are not
without evident stains of a hot disposition naturally.

Cris. O--I'll dye them into another colour, at pleasure: How many
yards of velvet dost thou think they contain?

Hor.
'Heart! I have put him now in a fresh way
To vex me more:---faith, sir, your mercer's book
Will tell you With more patience than I can:---
For I am crost, and so's not that, I think.

Cris.
'Slight, these verses have lost me again!
I shall not invite them to mind, now.

Hor.
Rack not your thoughts, good sir; rather defer it
To a new time; I'll meet you at your lodging,
Or where you please: 'till then, Jove keep you, sir!

Cris. Nay, gentle Horace, stay; I have it now.