PET. Marry, sir, it hung in the room where they stript me, and I borrowed it of one of the drawers, now in the evening, to come home in, because Iwas loth to come through the street in my shirt.
[ENTER LORENZO JUNIOR, PROSPERO, HESPERIDA.
CLEM. Well, disarm him, but it's no matter, let him stand by: who be these? oh, young gallants; welcome, welcome, and you, lady, nay, never scatter such amazed looks amongst us, Qui nil potest sperare desperet nihil.
PROS. Faith, master Doctor, that's even I, my hopes are small, and my despair shall be as little. Brother, sister, brother, what, cloudy, cloudy? "and will no sunshine on these looks appear?" Well, since there is such a tempest toward, I'll be the porpoise, I'll dance: wench, be of good cheer, thou hast a cloak for the rain yet, where is he? 'Sheart, how now, the picture of the prodigal, go to, I'll have the calf drest for you at my charges.
LOR. SE. Well, son Lorenzo, this day's work of yours hath much deceived my hopes, troubled my peace, and stretch'd my patience further than became the spirit of duty.
CLEM. Nay, God's pity, Signior Lorenzo, you shall urge it no more: come, since you are here, I'll have the disposing of all, but first, Signior Giuliano, at my request take your cloak again.
GIU. Well, sir, I am content.
CLEM. Stay, now let me see, oh signior snow-liver, I had almost forgotten him, and your Genius there, what, doth he suffer for a good conscience too? doth he bear his cross with patience?
MUS. Nay, they have scarce one cross between them both to bear.
CLEM. Why, dost thou know him? what is he? what is he?
MUS. Marry, search his pocket, sir, and he'll shew you he is an author, sir.
CLEM. Dic mihi musa virum: are you an author, sir? give me leave a little, come on, sir, I'll make verses with you now in honour of the gods and the goddesses for what you dare extempore; and now I begin.
"Mount thee my Phlegon muse, and testify, How Saturn sitting in an ebon cloud, Disrobed his podex, white as ivory, And through the welkin thunder'd all aloud."There's for you, sir.
PROS. Oh, he writes not in that height of style.
CLEM. No: we'll come a step or two lower then.
"From Catadupa and the banks of Nile, Where only breeds your monstrous crocodile, Now are we purposed for to fetch our style."PROS. Oh, too far-fetch'd for him still, master Doctor.
CLEM. Ay, say you so? let's intreat a sight of his vein then.
PROS. Signior, master Doctor desires to see a sight of your vein, nay you must not deny him.
CLEM. What, all this verse, body of me, he carries a whole realm; a commonwealth of paper in his hose, let's see some of his subjects.
"Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty, Runs this poor river, charg'd with streams of zeal, Returning thee the tribute of my duty:
Which here my youth, my plaints, my love reveal."Good! is this your own invention?
MAT. No, sir, I translated that out of a book, called 'Delia'.
CLEM. Oh, but I would see some of your own, some of your own.
MAT. Sir, here's the beginning of a sonnet I made to my mistress.
CLEM. That, that: who? to Madonna Hesperida, is she your mistress?
PROS. It pleaseth him to call her so, sir.
CLEM. "In summer time, when Phoebus' golden rays".
You translated this too, did you not?
PROS. No, this is invention; he found it in a ballad.
MAT. Faith sir, I had most of the conceit of it out of a ballad indeed.
CLEM. Conceit, fetch me a couple of torches, sirrah, I may see the conceit: quickly! it's very dark!
GIU. Call you this poetry?
LOR. JU. Poetry? nay, then call blasphemy, religion;Call devils, angels; and sin, piety:
Let all things be preposterously transchanged.
LOR. SE. Why, how now, son! what are you startled now?
Hath the brize prick'd you, ha? go to; you see How abjectly your poetry is rank'd in general opinion.
LOR. JU. Opinion, O God, let gross opinion sink and be damn'd As deep as Barathrum, If it may stand with your most wish'd content, I can refell opinion and approve The state of poesy, such as it is, Blessed, eternal, and most true divine:
Indeed, if you will look on Poesy As she appears in many, poor and lame, Patch'd up in remnants and old worn rags, Half starved for want of her peculiar food:
Sacred invention, then I must confirm Both your conceit and censure of her merit, But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the majesty of art, Set high in spirit, with the precious taste Of sweet philosophy, and which is most, Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul That hates to have her dignity profaned With any relish of an earthly thought:
Oh, then how proud a presence doth she bear.
Then is she like herself, fit to be seen Of none but grave and consecrated eyes:
Nor is it any blemish to her fame, That such lean, ignorant, and blasted wits, Such brainless gulls, should utter their stol'n wares With such applauses in our vulgar ears:
Or that their slubber'd lines have current pass >From the fat judgments of the multitude, But that this barren and infected age Should set no difference 'twixt these empty spirits And a true poet: than which reverend name Nothing can more adorn humanity.
[ENTER WITH TORCHES.
