To circle her, and her as glistering hair,
That all may say a living saint shines there;
Slow time with woollen feet make thy soft pace,
And leave no tracks i'th' snow of her pure face:
But when this virtue must needs fall, to rise,
The brightest constellation in the skies,
When we in characters of fire shall read
How clear she was alive, how spotless dead;
All you that are akin to piety,

For only you can her close mourners be,

Draw near, and make of hallowed tears a dearth; Goodness and Justice both, are fled the earth.

If this be to be thankful, I've a heart
Broken with vows, eaten with grateful smart,
And beside this, the wild world nothing hath
Worth any thing, but her provoked wrath:
So then who thinks to satisfy in time,
Must give a satisfaction for that crime:
Since she alone knows the gifts' value, she
Can only to herself requital be,

And worthily to th' life paint her own story
In its true colours and full native glory;
Which when perhaps she shall be heard to tell,
Buffoons and thieves ceasing to do ill,

Shall blush into a virgin innocence,
And then woo others from the same offence;
The robber and the murderer in spite

Of his red spots shall startle into white:

All good (rewards laid by) shall still increase
For love of her, and villany decease;

Naught be ignote, not so much out of fear
Of being punish'd, as offending her:

So that when as my future daring bays Shall bow itself in laurels to her praise, To crown her conq'ring goodness and proclaim The due renown, and glories of her name; My wit shall be so wretched, and so poor, That 'stead of praising, I shall scandal her, And leave when with my purest art I've done Scarce the design of what she is begun; Yet men shall send me home, admir'd, exact, Proud that I could from her so well detract.

Where then, thou bold instinct, shall I begin My endless task? To thank her were a sin Great as not speak, and not to speak a blame Beyond what's worst, such as doth want a name; So thou my all, poor gratitude, ev'n thou In this, wilt an unthankful office do: Or wilt I fling all at her feet I have? My life, my love, my very soul a slave? Tie my free spirit only unto her,

And yield up my affection prisoner?

Fond thought in this thou teachest me to give What first was hers, since by her breath I live; And hast but show'd me how I may resign Possession of those things are none of mine.

A Prologue

TO THE SCHOLARS.

A COMEDY PRESENTED AT THE WHITE-FRIARS.

A GENTLEMAN, to give us somewhat new,
Hath brought up Oxford with him to show you;
Pray be not frighted-though the scene and gowns,
The universities, the wits, the towns;

The lines, each honest Englishman may speak;
Yet not mistake his mother-tongue for Greek,
For still 'twas part of his vow'd liturgy,
From learned comedies deliver me!
Wishing all those that lov'd 'em here asleep,
Promising scholars, but no scholarship.

You'd smile to see how he does vex and shake, Speaks naught, but if the prologue does but take, Or the first act were past the pikes once, thenThen hopes and joys, then frowns and fears again, Then blushes like a virgin now to be

Robb'd of his comical virginity

In presence of you all; in short, you'd say
More hopes of mirth are in his looks than Play.

These fears are for the noble and the wise; But if 'mongst you there are such foul dead eyes As can damn unarraign'd, call law their pow'rs; Judging it sin enough that it is ours,

And with the house shift their decreed desires,

Fair still to th' black, black still to the White-friars; He does protest he will sit down and weep,

Castles and pyramids

no, he will on

Proud to be rais'd by such destruction,
So far from quarr'ling with himself and wit,
That he will thank them for the benefit;
Since finding nothing worthy of their hate,
They reach him that themselves must envy at.

THE EPILOGUE.

THE stubborn author of the trifle, crime,
That just now cheated you of two hours time,
Presumptuous, it lik't' him, began to grow
Careless, whether it pleased you or no.

But we who ground th' excellence of a play
On what the women at the doors will say,
Who judge it by the benches, and afford
To take your money ere his oath or word
His Scholars school'd, said if he had been wise
He should have wove in one, two comedies ;
The first for th' gallery, in which the throne
To their amazement should descend alone,
The rosin-lightning flash, and monster spire
Squibs, and words hotter than his fire.

D

Th' other for the gentlemen o'th' pit, Like to themselves, all spirit, fancy, wit, In which plots should be subtle as a flame, Disguises would make Proteus still the same: Humours so rarely humour'd, and express'd, That ev'n they should think 'em so, not dress'd; Vices acted and applauded too, times Tickled, and th' actors acted, not their crimes, So he might equally applause have gain'd Of th' hard'ned, sooty, and the snowy hand.

Where now one so so spatters, t'other, no; "Tis his first play, 'twere solecism 't should go ; The next it show'd prettily, but search'd within It appears bare and bald, as is his chin; The town-wit sentences; a scholar's play! Pish! I know not why-but they've not the way.

We, whose gain is all our pleasure, ev'n these Are bound by justice and religion to please: Which he whose pleasure's all his gain, goes by As slightly as they do his comedy.

Culls out the few, the worthy, at whose feet He sacrifices both himself, and it

His fancy's first fruits: profit he knows none
Unless that of your approbation,
Which if your thoughts at going out will pay,
He'll not look further for a second day.