worth striking,
But fawne with slavish flattery on damn'd vices,
So great men act them: you clap hands at those,
Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild
A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse
Which coffins stinking Carrion; no, his lines
Are free as his Invention; no base feare
Can shape his penne to Temporize even with Kings;
The blacker are their crimes he lowder sings.
Goe, goe, thou canst not write; 'tis but my calling
The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd.
Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir?

_Poet_. Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie
Is but a feigning; feigning is to lye,
And women practise lying more than men.

_Onae_. Nay, but if I shoo'd write I woo'd tell truth:
How might I reach a lofty straine?

_Poet_. Thus, Madam:
Bookes, Musick, Wine, brave Company and good Cheere
Make Poets to soare high and sing most cleare.

_Onae_. Are they borne Poets?

_Poet_. Yes.

_Onae_. Dye they?

_Poet_. Oh, never dye.

_Onae_. My misery is then a Poet sure,
For time has given it an Eternity.--
What sorts of Poets are there?

_Poet_. Two sorts, Lady;
The great Poets and the small Poets.

_Onae_. Great and small!
Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?

_Poet_. No, but such as have great heads, which, emptied forth,
Fill all the world with wonder at their lines--
Fellowes which swell big with the wind of praise:
The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie.

_Onae_. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet?

_Poet_. Emulation.

_Onae_. Which the next?

_Poet_. Necessity.

_Onae_. And which the worst?

_Poet_. Selfe-love.

_Onae_. Say I turne Poet, what should I get?

_Poet_. Opinion.

_Onae_. 'Las I have got too much of that already.
Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury;
Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me.
I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this;
Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold;
I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold:
So fare thou well.

_Poet_. Our pen shall honour you.
[_Exit_.

_Enter Cornego_.

_Cor_. The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor,
it dyed of a burning Feaver.

_Onae_. What shall I doe, _Cornego_? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And Marriage-breakers.

_Cor_. I beleeve you, Madam.--But her