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. How feel you now?

. My head is ringing as if a thousand clocks were winding up to strike, and yet it never comes off.

. Oh! you'll soon get hardened.

. We students are not used to such potations.

. A Student?

. An Italian Artist.

. I suppose its all the same: you should see Quentin Massys, he'll talk to you by the hour about that stuff; he's always poring over his books as if he were a priest.

. I think you said he was a friend of that fellow who attacked us so last night.

. What Franz! oh yes: they're a strange pair.


 * Enter.

We were just speaking of you!

. The worse luck to a good subject.

. You seem fond of banter.

. I use my kerchief to keep off flies.

. And somewhat proverbial.

. Shortness of speech is a saving both of time and strength, and your great talker is one who thinks he has too much of one of these of which no man has enough.

. That is philosophical.

. Name sense as you will, you cannot mar it; and it is much easier to name than to possess.

. Come Franz! you students are the most impudent dogs in the city.

. I am a student of plain speeches, and to the many truth will be always impudent.

. You are severe to your friends.

. I know all their faults, of strangers only some.


 * Enter

. Ah Quentin! pray pacify Franz here, who is making a most savage onslaughter on this gentleman, an artist from Italy.

. Ah! you do not know Franz. An artist, sir?

. A poor one at your service.

. Would that I were.

. You compete for the prize to-day?

. Quentin! Ha! ha! Quentin!

. What now! (check himself) Sir, it is only the first of the guild who enter for it.

. And I am poor and feeble.

. One of the best scholars in the city

. Franz!–this is his satire; what little time I steal