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Cost. O, they have liv’d long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallow’d than a flap-dragon.

Moth. Peace, the peal begins.

Arm. [To Holofernes.] Monsieur, are you not lett’red?

Moth. Yes, yes, he teaches boys the horn-book. What is a, b, spell’d backward, with the horn on his head?

Hol. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.

Moth. Ba, most silly sheep, with a horn. You hear his learning.

Hol. Quis, quis, thou consonant?

Moth. The last of the five vowels, if ‘you’ repeat them; or the fift, if I.

Hol. I will repeat them—a, e, I—

Moth. The sheep: the other two concludes it—o, U.

Arm. Now by the salt [wave] of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit—snip, snap, quick and home. It rejoiceth my intellect. True wit!

Moth. Offer’d by a child to an old man: which is wit-old.

Hol. What is the figure? What is the figure?

Moth. Horns.

Hol. Thou disputes like an infant; go whip thy gig.