_Painter_. It is a pretty mocking of the life.
Here's a touch; is't good?

_Poet_. I'll say of it
It tutors Nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches livelier than life.

He has thought of too fine a phrase; but it is in character with all his
fancies.

[_Enter certain Senators, and pass over._

_Painter_. How this lord's followed!

_Poet_. The senators of Athens: happy men!

This informs us who they are that pass over. The Poet also keeps up the
Ercles vein; while the Painter's eye is caught.

_Painter_. Look, more!

_Poet_. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment: my free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levelled malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold: