Pet. Yes, my employment is tripartite: I have here an anagram to a lady I made of her name this morning, with a poesy to another, that must be inserted into a ring; and here's a paper carries a secret word too, that must be given, and worn by a knight and tilter; and all my own imaginations, as I hope to be blessed.
Lio. Is't possible? how, have you lately drunk of the horsepond,[333] or stepped on the forked Parnassus, that you start out so sudden a poet?
Pet. Tut! I leave your Helicons and your pale Pirenes,[334] to such as will look after them. For my own part, I follow the instigation of my brain, and scorn other helps.
Lio. Do you so?
Pet. I'll justify it: the multiplicity of learning does but distract a man. I am all for your modern humours, and when I list to express a passion, it flows from me with that spring of amorous conceits, that a true lover may hang his head over, and read in it the very phys'nomy of his affection.
Duke. Why, this is a rare mirror! [Aside.
Leo. 'Tis so indeed, and beyond all the art of optics. [Aside.
Pet. And when my head labours with the pangs of delivery, by chance up comes a countess's waiting-woman, at whose sight, as at the remembrance of a mistress, my pen falls out of my hand; and then do I read to her half-a-dozen lines, whereat we both sit together, and melt into tears.
Leo. Pitiful-hearted creatures! [Aside.
Pet. I am now about a device that this gentleman has promis'd shall be presented before his highness.