 | The Bashful Lover |  |
PROLOGUE.
This from our Author, far from all offence,To abler writers, or the Audience
Met here to judge his Poem. He by me
Presents his service, with such modesty
As well becomes his weakness. 'Tis no crime
He hopes, as we do in this curious time,
To be a little diffident, when we are
To please so many with one Bill of Fare.
Let others, building on their merit, say
Y'are in the wrong, if you move not that way
Which they prescribe you, as you were bound to learn
Their maximes, but uncapable to discern
'Twixt truth and falshood Ours had rather be
Censur'd by some, for too much obsequy,
Then tax'd of self-opinion: If he hear
That his endeavors thriv'd, and did appear
Worthy your view (though made so by your grace,
With some desert) he in another place
Will thankfully report, one Leaf of Bays
Truly confer'd upon this work, will raise
More pleasure in him, you the givers free,
Then Garland ravisht from the Virgin-Tree.
| The Bashful Lover | |