HUB. I'faith, your grace did Salisbury's years great wrong, To curtail his good work, that seem'd so long: He, peradventure, would have brought in more, After his preface, to rich plenty's store. Perchance he would have show'd Dame Vanity, That in your court is suffered hourly; And bade you punish ruffians with long hair, New fashions, and such toys. A special care Has that good man: he turns the statute-book; About his hall and chambers if you look, The moral virtues in fair effigy Are lively painted: moral philosophy Has not a sentence, be it great or small, But it is painted on his honour's wall. _Enter_ QUEEN _and_ SALISBURY. KING. Peace, peace! he comes: now let's be silent all. SAL. I tell you, I was proud of his good words. QUEEN. God hold them, Salisbury, for it's often seen, A reconciled foe small good affords. SAL. O, forbear! trust me. I gage my honour he doth hold you dear. KING. How cheer you, Isabel? The earl your spouse Hath sent defiance to the king your husband, And, like a tried tall soldier, fled his holds In Marchland, where he knows, despite of him And all the men that he therein can raise, King John could have sent dogs enou' to tear Their ill-arm'd bodies piecemeal, ere his bands Should with base blood have stain'd their noble hands. And whither is this worshipful good earl (This first love, old love, new love, if you will) Gone, thinks your ladyship? forsooth, good man, To Normandy; and there he stirs up coals, And urgeth strong aid for confederates Who, as he says, are treacherously disposed. QUEEN. If he do so, the greater is his sin. Poor man. I have no interest in him. KING. But he hath had in you, as it should seem, Else would he not make sonnets of your brow, Your eye, your lip, your hand, your thigh. A plague upon him! how came he so nigh? Nay, now you have the curs'd quean's counterfeit: Through rage you shake, because you cannot rave. But answer me: why should the bedlam slave Entitle a whole poem to your kiss, Calling it cherry, ruby, this and this? I tell you, I am jealous of your love, Which makes me break into this passion. Here's the kind noble Aubery de Vere Knows what I speak is true. My lord, my lord! I do appeal to you, Are these things to be borne? SAL. No, by the rood: These love-rhymes are the tokens of small good. HUB. Why, my good lord, was never poetry Offer'd unto a lady's patronage? SAL. Yes, but not taken[301]. HUB. Yes, and taken too. Though moody[302] slaves, whose balladising rhymes With words unpolish'd show their brutish thoughts, Naming their maukins[303] in each lustful line, Let no celestial beauty look awry, When well-writ poems, couching her rich praise, Are offer'd to her unstain'd, virtuous eye: For poetry's high-sprighted sons will raise True beauty to all wish'd eternity. Therefore, my lord, your age is much to blame To think a taken poem lady's shame. SAL. You see the king, that's better read than you, And far more wrong'd than I, takes it not well.