Note 1356 — Scene V.[1349]

Giu. Call you this poetry? Lo. ju. Poetry! Nay, then call blasphemy religion, Call devils angels, and sin piety; Let all things be preposterously transchanged. Lo. se. Why, how now, son? What, are you startled now? Hath the prize[1359] prickt you, ha? Go to! You see How abjectly your poetry is rankt In general opinion. Lo. ju. Opinion! O God, let gross opinion Sink and be damn’d as deep as Barathrum! If it may stand with your most wisht content, I can refell[1360] opinion and approve The state of poesy, such as it is, Blessed, eternal, and most true divine. Indeed, if you will look on poesy As she appears in many, poor and lame, Patch’d up in remnants and old worn-out rags, Half starv’d for want of her peculiar food, Sacred invention,—then I must confirm Both your conceit and censure of her merit: But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the majesty of art, Set high in spirit with the precious taste Of sweet philosophy, and, which is most, Crown’d with the rich traditions of a soul That hates to have her dignity profan’d With any relish of an earthly thought, Oh, then how proud a presence doth she bear! Then is she like herself, fit to be seen Of none but grave and consecrated eyes. Nor is it any blemish to her fame That such keen, ignorant, and blasted wits, Such brainless gulls, should utter their stolen wares With such applauses in our vulgar ears; Or that their slubber’d lines have current pass From the fat judgments of the multitude; But that this barren and infected age Should set no difference ’twixt these empty spirits And a true poet; than which reverend names Nothing can more adorn humanity.