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.