If he will touch the estimate. But for that-
POET. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.
MERCHANT. [Looking at the jewel] 'Tis a good form.
JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water, look ye.
PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication
To the great lord.
POET. A thing slipp'd idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
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. What have you there?
PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?
POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.
Let's see your piece.
PAINTER. 'Tis a good piece.
POET. So 'tis; this comes off well and excellent.
PAINTER. Indifferent.
POET. Admirable. How this grace
Speaks his own standing! What a mental power
This eye shoots forth! How big imagination
Moves in this lip! To th' dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.
PAINTER. It is a pretty mocking of the life.
Here is a touch; is't good?
POET. I will say of it
It tutors nature. Artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
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