Upon the corpse of her own buried greatness.

_Crom._ Doubtless thou hast seen much to fill thy mind
With such disgust.

_Arth._ Good, sir! I did scarce feel it,
Till I return'd.

_Will._ Nay, sir! I do remember as we stood in
the mouldy big Circus, having sundry of the lousy
population idling within, whereby I did then liken it
to a venerable cheese, in which is some faint stir of
maggotry, that thou didst make a memorable speech
against the land, where the only vocation of a nobleman
is to defile the streets and be pimp to his own wife.

_Arth._ Cease, cease, yet there is truth in what he says.

_Crom._ Yet are there not amends in poetry,
Art, science, and a thousand delicate thoughts
Glowing on canvass, chisell'd in cold forms,
The marbled dreams of sculptor's classic brain?
Milton hath told of these.

_Arth._ Alas! 'tis but
Corruption's gilding. 'Tis the trick of vice
Full oft to pander in a graceful form;
But when the finer chords of hearts are set
In eyes glued to a dancer's feet, or ears
Strain'd to the rapture of a squeaking fiddle,