Duke. Are you so preposterous in your opinion, to think that wit and elegancy in writing are only confined to stagers and book-worms? 'Twere a solecism to imagine that a young bravery, who lives in the perpetual sphere of humanity, where every waiting-woman speaks perfect Arcadia,[330] and the ladies lips distil with the very quintessence of conceit, should be so barren of apprehension, as not to participate of their virtues.
Leo. Now I consider, they are great helps to a man.
Duke. But when he has travelled, and delibated the French[331] and the Spanish; can lie a-bed, and expound Astræa,[332] and digest him into compliments; and when he is up, accost his mistress with what he had read in the morning; now, if such a one should rack up his imagination, and give wings to his muse, 'tis credible, he should more catch your delicate court-ear, than all you head-scratchers, thumb-biters, lamp-wasters of them all.
Leo. Well, I say the iniquity of fortune appears in nothing more, than not advancing that man to some extraordinary honours.
Lio. But I never thought he had any genius that way.
Duke. What, because he has been backward to produce his good qualities? Believe it, poetry will out; it can no more be hid than fire or love.
Pet. I'll break them off, they have e'en spoken enough in my behalf for nothing, o' conscience. [Aside.] Save you, Cavalieros!
Duke. My much honoured Petrucio, you are welcome; we were now entered into a discourse of your worth. Whither do your occasions enforce you so fast?
Pet. Gentlemen, to tell you true, I am going upon some raptures.
Leo. Upon raptures, say you.