--What, think'st thou,
That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moist trees
That have out-liv'd the eagle, page thy heels,
And skip when thou point'st out? will the cold brook,
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste
To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit? Call the creatures,
Whose naked natures live in all the spight
Of wreakful heav'n, whose bare unhoused trunks,
To the conflicting elements expos'd,
Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee.

The manners are everywhere preserved with distinct truth. The poet
and painter are very skilfully played off against one another, both
affecting great attention to the other, and each taken up with his
own vanity, and the superiority of his own art. Shakespeare has put
into the mouth of the former a very lively description of the genius
of poetry and of his own in particular.

--A thing slipt idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum, which issues
From whence 'tis nourish'd. The fire i' th' flint
Shows not till it be struck: our gentle flame
Provokes itself--and like the current flies
Each bound it chafes.

The hollow friendship and shuffling evasions of the Athenian lords,
their smooth professions and pitiful ingratitude, are very
satisfactorily exposed, as well as the different disguises to which