Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
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. Pain.
Pain. A Picture sir: when comes your Booke forth?
Poet. Poet.
Poet. Vpon the heeles of my presentment sir.
Poet. Let's see your peece.
Pain. 'Tis a good Peece.
Poet. So 'tis, this comes off well, and excellent.
Pain. Indifferent.
Poet. Admirable: How this grace
Poet. Speakes his owne standing: what a mentall power