Mer. 'Tis a good forme
Iewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye
Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedication
to the great Lord
Poet. A thing slipt idlely from me.
Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which vses
From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th' Flint
Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame
Prouokes it selfe, and like the currant flyes
Each bound it chases. What haue you there?
Pain. A Picture sir: when comes your Booke forth?
Poet. Vpon the heeles of my presentment sir.
Let's see your peece
Pain. 'Tis a good Peece
Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well, and excellent
Pain. Indifferent
Poet. Admirable: How this grace
Speakes his owne standing: what a mentall power
This eye shootes forth? How bigge imagination
Moues in this Lip, to th' dumbnesse of the gesture,
One might interpret
Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life:
Heere is a touch: Is't good?
Poet. I will say of it,
It Tutors Nature, Artificiall strife
Liues in these toutches, liuelier then life.
Enter certaine Senators.
Pain. How this Lord is followed