On Brisk

Brisk brag'd of's ready wit; I tempting him
But for one distick, did propound this theam,
Nothing: It cannot be, he wondring said
That out of Nothing ought shu'd e'r be made.
Dul Brisk thou ne'r couldst tune Apollo's lyre:
A puresteeld wit, wil strike Mercurial fire
Out of the flintiest subject: but thy head
Is all compos'd of softer mettle, lead.