 | The Gratefvll Servant |  |
To my friend the author.
My name is free, and my rich clothes commendNo deformd bounty of a looser friend,
Nor am I warme i'th Sunshine of great men
By guiding their darke sinnes, truth guides my pen,
Bright iustice therefore bold by me, doth say
Mans vnderstanding feeles no such decay
But it may iudge, and while the soule of wit
Liues bodied in the stage, spectator sit:
Old nature's euer young, and 'twere a crime
Gainst reason, to auerre our aged time
Is sicke with dotage: which doth still impart
To 'th betterd world new miracles of art.
I must applaude thy scenes, and hope thy Stile
Will make Arabia enuious of our Ile
Confesse vs happy since th'ast giuen a name
To the English Phenix, which by thy great flame
Will liue, in spight of mallice to delight
Our Nation, doing art and nature right,
Go forward still, and when his muse expires
Whose English, staines the greeke and latine lires
Diuinest Ionson, liue to make vs see.
The glory of the stage reuiu'd in thee.
William Habington.
| The Gratefvll Servant | |