JEWELLER.
And rich. Here is a water, look ye.
PAINTER.
You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication
To the great lord.
POET.
A thing slipped idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum which oozes
From whence ’tis nourished. The fire i’ th’ flint
Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame
Provokes itself and, like the current, flies
Each bound it chases. What have you there?
PAINTER.
A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?
POET.
Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.
Let’s see your piece.
PAINTER.
’Tis a good piece.
POET.
So ’tis. This comes off well and excellent.
PAINTER.
Indifferent.
POET.
Admirable! How this grace
Speaks his own standing! What a mental power
This eye shoots forth! How big imagination
Moves in this lip! To th’ dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.
PAINTER.
It is a pretty mocking of the life.
Here is a touch. Is’t good?