Poet. Two sorts, Lady; The great Poets and the small Poets.
Onae. Great and small! Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?
Poet. No, but such as have great heads, which, emptied forth,
Fill all the world with wonder at their lines—
Fellowes which swell big with the wind of praise:
The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie.
Onae. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?
Poet. Emulation.
Onae. Which the next?
Poet. Necessity.
Onae. And which the worst?
Poet. Selfe-love.
Onae. Say I turne Poet, what should I get?