Onae. Then bid him better welcome: Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,— Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.
Enter Poet.
Poet. Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.
Onae. To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.
'To the most honoured Lady—Onaelia'
Fellow, thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured:
Thou shouldst have writ 'To the most wronged Lady':
The Title of this booke is not to me;
I teare it therefore as mine Honour's torne.
Cor. Your Verses are lam'd in some of their feet, Master Poet.
Onae. What does it treate of?
Poet. Of the sollemne Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.
Onae. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines! Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?
Poet. 'Las, Madam!
Onae. When her funerals are past Crowne thou a Dedication to my joyes, And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse. —Cornego, burne this Idoll.