 | The Pleasant Comedie of Old Fortunatus |  |
The Prologue.
Of Loues sweete war, our timerous Muse doth sing,And to the bosome of each gentle deare,
Offence her Artles tunes, borne on the wing
Of sacred Poesy. A benumming feare,
(That your nice soules, cloyd with dilicious sounds,
Will loath her lowly notes) makes her pull in
Her fainting pineons, and her spirit confounds
Before the weake voice of her song begin.
Yet since within the circle of each eye,
(Being like so many Suns in his round Sphere)
No wrinckle yet is seene, sheele dare to flie,
Borne vp with hopes, that as you oft do reare
With your faire hands, those who would els sinke down,
So some will deigne to smile, where all might frown:
And for this smal Circumference must stand,
For the imagind Sur-face of much land,
Of many kingdomes, and since many a mile,
Should here be measurd out: our muse intreats,
Your thoughts to helpe poore Art, and to allow,
That I may serue as Chorus to her scences,
She begs your pardon, for sheele send me foorth,
Not when the lawes of Poesy doe call,
But as the storie needes, your gracious eye
Giues life to Fortunatus historie.
Exit.
| The Pleasant Comedie of Old Fortunatus | |