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Section 20
Passage 1 of 1 · section 20 of 908
1Poet.
2A thing slipt idlely from me.
3Our Poesie is as a Gowne, which vses
4From whence 'tis nourisht: the fire i'th'Flint
5Shewes not, till it be strooke: our gentle flame
6Prouokes it selfe, and like the currant flyes
7Each bound it chases. What haue you there?