in but's garters.

_Onae_. Sent from the king to warne me of my death:
I prethe bid him welcome.

_Cor_. He says he is a Poet.

_Onae_. Then bid him better welcome:
Belike he's come to write my Epitaph,--
Some[198] scurvy thing, I warrant: welcome, Sir.

_Enter Poet_.

_Poet_. Madam[199], my love presents this book unto you.

_Onae_. To me? I am not worthy of a line,
Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me.
'To the most honoured Lady--_Onaelia_'
Fellow, thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured:
Thou shouldst have writ 'To the most wronged Lady':
The Title of this booke is not to me;
I teare it therefore as mine Honour's torne.

_Cor_. Your Verses are lam'd in some of their feet, Master Poet.

_Onae_. What does it treate of?

_Poet_. Of the sollemne Triumphs
Set forth at Coronation of the Queene.

_Onae_. Hissing (the Poets whirle-wind) blast thy lines!
Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs?

_Poet_. 'Las, Madam!

_Onae_. When her funerals are past
Crowne thou a Dedication to my joyes,
And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse.
--_Cornego_, burne this Idoll.

_Cor_. Your booke shall come to light, Sir.
[_Exit_.

_Onae_. I have read legends of disastrous Dames:
Will none set pen to paper for poore me?
Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people
Doe call 'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell?

_Poet_. I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.

_Onae_. Doe it then for me.

_Poet_. And every line must be
A whip to draw blood.

_Onae_. Better.

_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