This gave a hint to Wordsworth, who, in one of his “Poems on the Naming of Places,” thus prolongs the echo of it: 

  Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
  That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
  The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
  Took up the Lady’s voice, and laughed again;
  The ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
  Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
  And the tall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
  A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
  And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
  Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
  Carried the Lady’s voice,—­old Skiddaw blew
  His speaking-trumpet;—­back out of the clouds
  Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
  And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

Now, this passage of Wordsworth I should call the idealization of that of Drayton, who becomes poetical only in the “stone-trophied head of Dunbalrase”; and yet the thought of both poets is the same.

Even what is essentially vulgar may be idealized by seizing and dwelling on the generic characteristics.  In “Antony and Cleopatra” Shakespeare makes Lepidus tipsy, and nothing can be droller than the drunken gravity with which he persists in proving himself capable of bearing his part in the conversation.  We seem to feel the whirl in his head when we find his mind revolving round a certain fixed point to which he clings as to a post.  Antony is telling stories of Egypt to Octavius, and Lepidus, drawn into an eddy of the talk, interrupts him: 

  Lepidus:  You gave strange serpents there.

  Antony [trying to shake him off]:  Ay, Lepidus.

  Lepidus:  Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud
  by the operation of your sun:  so is your crocodile.

  Antony [thinking to get rid of him]:  They are so.

Presently Lepidus has revolved again, and continues, as if he had been contradicted: 

  Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ pyramises
  are very goodly things; without contradiction, I have heard
  that.

And then, after another pause, still intent on proving himself sober, he asks, coming round to the crocodile again: 

  What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

Antony answers gravely: 

It is shaped, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth; it is just so high as it is, and moves with its own organs:  it lives by that which nourisheth it; and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates.

  Lepidus:  What color is it of?

  Antony:  Of its own color, too.

  Lepidus [meditatively]:  ’T is a strange serpent.