Florence this day. Go to, you shall come, and let your
Muses go spin for once. If thou wilt not, 's hart, what's
your god's name? Apollo? Ay, Apollo. If this melancholy
rogue (Lorenzo here) do not come, grant, that he do turn
Fool presently, and never hereafter be able to make a good
jest, or a blank verse, but live in more penury of wit
and invention, than either the Hall-Beadle, or Poet
Nuntius."
Well, it is the strangest letter that ever I read.
Is this the man, my son so oft hath praised
To be the happiest, and most precious wit
That ever was familiar with Art?
Now, by our Lady's blessed son, I swear,
I rather think him most unfortunate
In the possession of such holy gifts,
Being the master of so loose a spirit.
Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ
With so profane a pen unto his friend?
The modest paper e'en looks pale for grief,
To feel her virgin-cheek defiled and stained
With such a black and criminal inscription.
Well, I had thought my son could not have strayed
So far from judgment as to mart himself
Thus cheaply in the open trade of scorn
To jeering folly and fantastic humour.
But now I see opinion is a fool,
And hath abused my senses. -- Musco.

[ENTER MUSCO.]