Iew. I haue a Iewell heere

Mer. O pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir?
Iewel. If he will touch the estimate. But for that-
Poet. When we for recompence haue prais'd the vild,
It staines the glory in that happy Verse,
Which aptly sings the good

Mer. 'Tis a good forme

Iewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye

Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedication
to the great Lord

Poet. A thing slipt idlely from me.
Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which vses
From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th' Flint
Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame
Prouokes it selfe, and like the currant flyes
Each bound it chases. What haue you there?
Pain. A Picture sir: when comes your Booke forth?
Poet. Vpon the heeles of my presentment sir.
Let's see your peece

Pain. 'Tis a good Peece

Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well, and excellent

Pain. Indifferent