Dear Moonen, were it not geometry If perchance I could surely scan How many drops of wine there be in a can? MOONEN Yea, love, and have ye the trick of that still? I taught it you but yesterday. EMMA To forget it were ill. Logic ye after taught me well and fair: I hold it all fast in mind. FIRST TIPPLER Toper, what saith your wife there? Can she soothly reckon to a jot How many drops of wine be in this pot? Of stranger thing I have never heard write. MOONEN She will do yet stranger in your sight. Her like ye have never met withall; The seven arts she hath mastered all; Ars metric and geometry, Logic, grammar, astronomy, Music, and rhetoric, of ancientest repute. With the stoutest clerk she dare dispute In the schools of Paris or Louvain. SECOND TIPPLER Good toper, under your leave we were fain See or hear some of her art. FIRST TIPPLER Yea, surely, and I pledge two stoups of wine for my part, And, by cog’s ribs, if any scant her in her tale We will shed our blood for you without fail, In any mischief that may you befall. MOONEN That merry ballat, as ye may call, Wherewith our last noonday in Highstreet ye amused, Do ye tell o’er for these folk. EMMA I pray you hold me excused. In rhetoric I be but a dull wight, Allbe I would fain go to it with my might, The circle of the seven arts to fulfill. Rhetoric is not to be learned by skill; ’Tis an art that cometh of itself solely. The other arts, if a man giveth himself thereto wholly, These be to be learned and eke taught. But rhetoric is to be praised beyond aught. ’Tis a gift of the Holy Ghost’s bestowing, Though there be rude folk of such small knowing That they reject it. ’Tis great dole To them who love it. SECOND TOPER Ay, good soul, Must we use so much argument? FIRST TOPER Say us somewhat, we were well content With what ye can, and out of good will I will eke say somewhat. EMMA Now, hold ye still, For rhetoric asketh good understanding; And after my best cunning I will sing. O rhetoric, sweet theoric and comfortable, I lament with dreariment that men thee hate; Unto the heart that loves thine art ’tis lamentable. Cry on them fy! who thee not cultivate Or thy first finder’s fame abate! Lewd and without shame are they. Them I despise who do after this rate; And to the wise ’tis grief to hear this say: Through folly falls poesy to decay.