PHILOMUSUS. 
Wonder, as well thou may’st, why ’mongst the waves—­
’Mongst the tempestuous waves on raging sea,
The wailing merchant can no pity crave. 
What cares the wind and weather for their pains? 
One strikes the sail, another turns the same;
He shakes the main, another takes the oar,
Another laboureth and taketh pain
To pump the sea into the sea again: 
Still they take pains, still the loud winds do blow,
Till the ship’s prouder mast be laid below.

STUDIOSO. 
Fond world, that ne’er think’st on that aged man—­
That Ariosto’s old swift-paced man,
Whose name is Time, who never lins to run,
Loaden with bundles of decayed names,
The which in Lethe’s lake he doth entomb,
Save only those which swan-like scholars take,
And do deliver from that greedy lake. 
Inglorious may they live, inglorious die,
That suffer learning live in misery.

PHILOMUSUS. 
What caren they what fame their ashes have,
When once they’re coop’d up in the silent grave?

STUDIOSO. 
If for fair fame they hope not when they die. 
Yet let them fear grave’s staining infamy.

PHILOMUSUS. 
Their spendthrift heirs will those firebrands quench,
Swaggering full moistly on a tavern’s bench.

STUDIOSO. 
No shamed sire, for all his glosing heir,
Must long be talk’d of in the empty air. 
Believe me, thou that art my second self,
My vexed soul is not disquieted,
For that I miss is gaudy-painted state,
Whereat my fortunes fairly aim’d of late: 
For what am I, the mean’st of many mo,
That, earning profit, are repaid with woe. 
But this it is that doth my soul torment: 
To think so many activable wits,
That might contend with proudest bards[127] of Po,
Sit now immur’d within their private cells,
Drinking a long lank watching candle’s smoke,
Spending the marrow of their flow’ring age
In fruitless poring on some worm-eat leaf: 
When their deserts shall seem of due to claim
A cheerful crop of fruitful swelling sheaf;
Cockle their harvest is, and weeds their grain,
Contempt their portion, their possession, pain. 
Scholars must frame to live at a low sail.

PHILOMUSUS. 
Ill-sailing, where there blows no happy gale!

STUDIOSO. 
Our ship is ruin’d, all her tackling rent.

PHILOMUSUS. 
And all her gaudy furniture is spent.

STUDIOSO. 
Tears be the waves whereon her ruins bide.

PHILOMUSUS. 
And sighs the winds that waste her broken side.

STUDIOSO. 
Mischief the pilot is the ship to steer.

PHILOMUSUS. 
And woe the passenger this ship doth bear.

STUDIOSO. 
Come, Philomusus, let us break this chat.

PHILOMUSUS. 
And break, my heart!  O, would I could break that!

STUDIOSO. 
Let’s learn to act that tragic part we have.