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 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?