Chrys.My lord, a blush
Is modesty’s sole herald—and true worth
Is ever modest. Pray you, sir, again!
Phan. It’s a poor thing—a string of platitudes—
Stale metaphors—time-honored similes.
I’m a poor poet, gentlemen!
Chrys.I swear
There never lived a poet till now!
Zoram.And then
The music you have wedded to the words