Pol. 
   Yes; they say you are slow,
   And scarce bring forth a play a year.

Aut.  ’Tis true. 
   I would they could not say that I did that ! 
   There’ s all the joy that I take in their trade,
   Unless such scribes as these might be proscribed
   Th’ abused theatres.  They would think it strange, now,
   A man should take but colts-foot for one day,
   And, between whiles, spit out a better poem
   Than e’er the master of art, or giver of wit,
   Their belly, made.  Yet, this is possible,
   If a free mind had but the patience,
   To think so much together and so vile. 
   But that these base and beggarly conceits
   Should carry it, by the multitude of voices,
   Against the most abstracted work, opposed
   To the stuff’d nostrils of the drunken rout! 
   O, this would make a learn’d and liberal soul
   To rive his stained quill up to the back,
   And damn his long-watch’d labours to the fire,
   Things that were born when none but the still night
   And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes,
   Were not his own free merit a more crown
   Unto his travails than their reeling claps. 
   This ’tis that strikes me silent, seals my lips,
   And apts me rather to sleep out my time,
   Than I would waste it in contemned strifes
   With these vile Ibides, these unclean birds,
   That make their mouths their clysters, and still purge
   From their hot entrails.  But I leave the monsters
   To their own fate.  And, since the Comic Muse
   Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try
   If tragedy have a more kind aspect;
   Her favours in my next I will pursue,
   Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one,
   So he judicious be, he shall be alone
   A theatre unto me; Once I’ll say
   To strike the ear of time in those fresh strains,
     As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,
   Give cause to some of wonder, some despite,
     And more despair, to imitate their sound. 
   I, that spend half my nights, and all my days,
     Here in a cell, to get a dark paleface,
   To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,
     And in this age can hope no other grace—–­
   Leave me!  There’s something come into my thought,
   That must and shall be sung high and aloof,
   Safe from the wolfs black jaw, and the dun ass’s hoof

Nas.  I reverence these raptures, and obey them.
                                           [The scene closes—–­

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GLOSSARY

Abate, cast down, subdue.

Abhorring, repugnant (to), at variance.

Abject, base, degraded thing, outcast.

ABRASE, smooth, blank.

Absolute(ly), faultless(ly).

Abstracted, abstract, abstruse.