POET.
When we for recompense have praised the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.
MERCHANT.
[Looking at the jewel.]
’Tis a good form.
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.