Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Poet. Which aptly sings the good.
Mer. Mer.
Mer. 'Tis a good forme.
Iewel. Iewel.
Iewel. And rich: heere is a Water looke ye.
Pain. Pain.
Pain. You are rapt sir, in some worke, some Dedica
Pain. tion to the great Lord.
Poet. Poet.
Poet. A thing slipt idlely from me.
Poet. Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which vses
Poet. From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th'Flint
Poet. Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame
Poet. Prouokes it selfe, and like the currant flyes
Poet. 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.
Poet. Let's see your peece.