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.
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