_Poet_. And to dare The stab from him it touches. He that writes Such Libels (as you call 'em) must lance[200] wide The sores of mens corruptions, and even search To'th quicke for dead flesh or for rotten cores: A Poets Inke can better cure some sores Then Surgeons Balsum. _Onae_. Vndertake that Cure And crowne thy verse with Bayes. _Poet_. Madam, I'le doo't; But I must have the parties Character. _Onae_. The king. _Poet_. I doe not love to pluck the quils With which I make pens, out of a Lions claw. The King! shoo'd I be bitter 'gainst the king I shall have scurvy ballads made of me Sung to the Hanging Tune[201]. I dare not, Madam. _Onae_. This basenesse follows your profession: You are like common Beadles, apt to lash Almost to death poore wretches not worth striking, But fawne with slavish flattery on damn'd vices, So great men act them: you clap hands at those, Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse Which coffins stinking Carrion; no, his lines Are free as his Invention; no base feare Can shape his penne to Temporize even with Kings; The blacker are their crimes he lowder sings. Goe, goe, thou canst not write; 'tis but my calling The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd. Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir? _Poet_. Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie Is but a feigning; feigning is to lye, And women practise lying more than men. _Onae_. Nay, but if I shoo'd write I woo'd tell truth: How might I reach a lofty straine? _Poet_. Thus, Madam: Bookes, Musick, Wine, brave Company and good Cheere Make Poets to soare high and sing most cleare. _Onae_. Are they borne Poets? _Poet_. Yes. _Onae_. Dye they? _Poet_. Oh, never dye. _Onae_. My misery is then a Poet sure, For time has given it an Eternity.-- What sorts of Poets are there? _Poet_. Two sorts, Lady; The great Poets and the small Poets. _Onae_. Great and small! Which doe you call the great? the fat ones? _Poet_. No, but such as have great heads, which, emptied forth, Fill all the world with wonder at their lines-- Fellowes which swell big with the wind of praise: The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie. _Onae_. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet? _Poet_. Emulation. _Onae_. Which the next? _Poet_. Necessity. _Onae_. And which the worst? _Poet_. Selfe-love. _Onae_. Say I turne Poet, what should I get? _Poet_. Opinion. _Onae_. 'Las I have got too much of that already. Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury; Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me. I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this; Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold; I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold: So fare thou well. _Poet_. Our pen shall honour you. [_Exit_. _Enter Cornego_.