POET.
I have not seen you long. How goes the world?

PAINTER.
It wears, sir, as it grows.

POET.
Ay, that's well known;
But what particular rarity? what strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd to attend! I know the merchant.

PAINTER.
I know them both; th' other's a jeweller.

MERCHANT.
O, 'tis a worthy lord!

JEWELLER.
Nay, that's most fix'd.

MERCHANT.
A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were,
To an untirable and continuate goodness.
He passes.

JEWELLER.
I have a jewel here--