Cor. Your booke shall come to light, Sir. [Exit.
Onae. I have read legends of disastrous Dames:
Will none set pen to paper for poore me?
Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people
Doe call 'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell?
Poet. I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.
Onae. Doe it then for me.
Poet. And every line must be A whip to draw blood.
Onae. Better.
Poet. And to dare
The stab from him it touches. He that writes
Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance[200] wide
The sores of mens corruptions, and even search
To'th quicke for dead flesh or for rotten cores:
A Poets Inke can better cure some sores
Then Surgeons Balsum.
Onae. Vndertake that Cure And crowne thy verse with Bayes.
Poet. Madam, I'le doo't; But I must have the parties Character.
Onae. The king.