think thou and I, in a small time, should lift them all out of
favour, both Virgil, Varius, and the best of them, and enjoy him
wholly to ourselves.

Hor.
Gods, you do know it, I can hold no longer;
This brize has prick'd my patience. Sir, your silkness
Clearly mistakes Mecaenas and his house,
To think there breathes a spirit beneath his roof,
Subject unto those poor affections
Of undermining envy and detraction,
Moods only proper to base grovelling minds.
That place is not in Rome, I dare affirm,
More pure or free from such low common evils.
There's no man griev'd, that this is thought more rich,
Or this more learned; each man hath his place,
And to his merit his reward of grace,
Which, with a mutual love, they all embrace.

Cris. You report a wonder: 'tis scarce credible, this.

Hor. l am no torturer to enforce you to believe it; but it is so

Cris. Why, this inflames me with a more ardent desire to be his,
than before; but I doubt I shall find the entrance to his
familiarity somewhat more than difficult, Horace.

Hor. Tut, you'll conquer him, as you have done me; there's no
standing out against you, sir, I see that: either your importunity,
or the intimation of your good parts, or