Cris. Wilt thou go, Horace?

Hor.
Heart! he cleaves to me like Alcides' shirt,
Tearing my flesh and sinews: O, I've been vex'd
And tortured with him beyond forty fevers.
For Jove's sake, find some means to take me from him.

Ari. Yes, I will;--but I'll go first and tell Mecaenas. [Aside.

Cris. Come, shall we go?

Ari. The jest will make his eyes run, i'faith. [Aside.

Hor. Nay, Aristius!

Ari. Farewell, Horace. [Going.

Hor. 'Death! will he leave me? Fuscus Aristius! do you hear? Gods
of Rome! You said you had somewhat to say to me in private.

Ari. Ay, but I see you are now employed with that gentleman; 'twere
offence to trouble you; I'll take some fitter opportunity:
farewell. [Exit.

Hor.
Mischief and torment! O my soul and heart,
How are you cramp'd with anguish! Death itself
Brings not the like convulsions, O, this day!