HIERO. Why then I'll fit you; say no more.
When I was young I gave my mind
And plied myself to fruitless poetry,
Which, though it profit the professor naught,
Yet is it passing pleasing to the world.
LOR. And how for that?
HIERO. Marry, my good lord, thus.—
And yet, me thinks, you are too quick with us!—
When in Toledo there I studied,
It was my chance to write a tragedy,—
See here, my lords,—
He shows them a book.
Which, long forgot, I found this other day.
Nor would your lordships favour me so much
As but to grace me with your acting it,
I mean each one of you to play a part.
Assure you it will prove most passing strange
And wondrous plausible to that assembly.
BAL. What, would you have us play a tragedy?
HIERO. Why, Nero thought it no disparagement,
And kings and emperors have ta'en delight
To make experience of their wit in plays!
LOR. Nay, be not angry, good Hieronimo;
The prince but ask'd a question.
BAL. In faith, Hieronimo, and you be in earnest,
I'll make one.
LOR. And I another.