MAT. Who? I, sir? no.

BOB. Not that I need to care who know it, but in regard I would
not be so popular and general as some be.

MAT. True, Signior, I conceive you.

BOB. For do you see, sir, by the heart of myself, (except it be
to some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily
engaged, as yourself, or so,) I could not extend thus far.

MAT. O Lord, sir! I resolve so.

BOB. What new book have you there? What? "Go by Hieronymo."

MAT. Ay, did you ever see it acted? is't not well penned?

BOB. Well penned: I would fain see all the Poets of our time pen
such another play as that was; they'll prate and swagger, and keep
a stir of art and devices, when (by God's so) they are the most
shallow, pitiful fellows that live upon the face of the earth
again.

MAT. Indeed, here are a number of fine speeches in this book:
"Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears;" there's a
conceit: Fountains fraught with tears. "Oh life, no life, but
lively form of death;" is't not excellent? "Oh world, no world,
but mass of public wrongs;" O God's me: "confused and filled with
murder and misdeeds." Is't not simply the best that ever you