But I have lavished out too many words of this play matter; I do it,
because, as they are excelling parts of poesy, so is there none so
much used in England, and none can be more pitifully abused; which,
like an unmannerly daughter, showing a bad education, causeth her
mother Poesy's honesty to be called in question.
Other {90} sorts of poetry, almost, have we none, but that lyrical
kind of songs and sonnets, which, if the Lord gave us so good minds,
how well it might be employed, and with how heavenly fruits, both
private and public, in singing the praises of the immortal beauty,
the immortal goodness of that God, who giveth us hands to write, and
wits to conceive; of which we might well want words, but never
matter; of which we could turn our eyes to nothing, but we should
ever have new budding occasions.
But, truly, many of such writings as come under the banner of
unresistible love, if I were a mistress, would never persuade me
they were in love; so coldly they apply fiery speeches, as men that
had rather read lover's writings, and so caught up certain swelling
phrases, which hang together like a man that once told me, "the wind
was at north-west and by south," because he would be sure to name
winds enough; than that, in truth, they feel those passions, which
easily, as I think, may be bewrayed by the same forcibleness, or
"energia" (as the Greeks call it), of the writer.
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