Aut monologue (Act 4) — The Poetaster

But they that have incensed me, can in soul Acquit me of that guilt. They know I dare To spurn or baffle them, or squirt their eyes With ink or urine; or I could do worse, Arm'd with Archilochus' fury, write Iambics, Should make the desperate lashers hang themselves; Rhime them to death, as they do Irish rats In drumming tunes. Or, living, I could stamp Their foreheads with those deep and public brands, That the whole company of barber-surgeon a Should not take off with all their art and plasters. And these my prints should last, still to be read In their pale fronts; when, what they write 'gainst me Shall, like a figure drawn in water, fleet, And the poor wretched papers be employed To clothe tobacco, or some cheaper drug: This I could do, and make them infamous. But, to what end? when their own deeds have mark'd 'em; And that I know, within his guilty breast Each slanderer bears a whip that shall torment him Worse than a million of these temporal plagues: Which to pursue, were but a feminine humour, And far beneath the dignity of man.