 | The Sad Shepherd :or, A Tale of Robin-Hood |  |
119
The PROLOGVE.
He
that hath feasted you these forty yeares,
And fitted Fables, for your finer eares,
Although at first, he scarce could hit the bore;
Yet you, with patience harkning more and more,
At length have growne up to him, and made knowne,
The Working of his Pen is now your owne:
He pray's you would vouchsafe, for your owne sake,
To heare him this once more, but, sit awake.
And though hee now present you with such wooll,
As from meere English Flocks his Muse can pull,
He hopes when it is made up into Cloath;
Not the most curious head here will be loath
To weare a Hood of it; it being a Fleece,
To match, or those of Sicily, or Greece.
His Scene is Sherwood: And his Play a Tale
Of Robin-hood's inviting from the Vale
Of Be'voir, all the Shep'ards to a Feast:
Where, by the casuall absence of one Guest,
The Mirth is troubled much, and in one Man
As much of sadnesse showne, as Passion can.
The sad young Shep'ard, whom wee here present,
Like his woes Figure, darke and discontent,
For his lost Love; who in the Trent is said,
To have miscarried; 'lasse! what knowes the head
Of a calme River, whom the feet have drown'd?
Heare what his sorrowes are; and, if they wound
Your gentle brests, so that the End crowne all,
Which in the Scope of one dayes chance may fall:
Old Trent will send you more such Tales as these,
And shall grow young againe, as one doth please.
Here the Prologue thinking to end, returnes upon a new purpose, and speakes on.
And fitted Fables, for your finer eares,
Although at first, he scarce could hit the bore;
Yet you, with patience harkning more and more,
At length have growne up to him, and made knowne,
The Working of his Pen is now your owne:
He pray's you would vouchsafe, for your owne sake,
To heare him this once more, but, sit awake.
And though hee now present you with such wooll,
As from meere English Flocks his Muse can pull,
He hopes when it is made up into Cloath;
Not the most curious head here will be loath
To weare a Hood of it; it being a Fleece,
To match, or those of Sicily, or Greece.
His Scene is Sherwood: And his Play a Tale
Of Robin-hood's inviting from the Vale
Of Be'voir, all the Shep'ards to a Feast:
Where, by the casuall absence of one Guest,
The Mirth is troubled much, and in one Man
As much of sadnesse showne, as Passion can.
The sad young Shep'ard, whom wee here present,
Like his woes Figure, darke and discontent,
For his lost Love; who in the Trent is said,
To have miscarried; 'lasse! what knowes the head
Of a calme River, whom the feet have drown'd?
Heare what his sorrowes are; and, if they wound
Your gentle brests, so that the End crowne all,
Which in the Scope of one dayes chance may fall:
Old Trent will send you more such Tales as these,
And shall grow young againe, as one doth please.
But here's an Heresie of late let fall;
That Mirth by no meanes fits a Pastorall;
Such say so, who can make none, he presumes:
Else, there's no Scene, more properly assumes
The Sock. For whence can sport in kind arise,
But from the Rurall Routs and Families?
Safe on this ground then, wee not feare to day,
To tempt your laughter by our rustick Play.
Wherein if we distaste, or be cry'd downe,
Wee thinke wee therefore shall not leave the Towne;
Nor that the Fore-wits, that would draw the rest
Vnto their liking, alwayes like the best.
The wise, and knowing Critick will not say,
This worst, or better is, before he weigh;
Where every piece be perfect in the kind:
And then, though in themselves he difference find,
Yet if the place require it where they stood,
The equall fitting makes them equall good.
You shall have Love and Hate, and Iealousie,
As well as Mirth, and Rage, and Melancholy:
Or whatsoever else may either move,
Or stirre affections, and your likings prove.
But that no stile for Pastorall should goe
Current, but what is stamp'd with Ah, and O;
Who judgeth so, may singularly erre;
As if all Poesie had one Character:
In which what were not written, were not right,
Or that the man who made such one poore flight,
In his whole life, had with his winged skill
Advanc'd him upmost on the Muses hill.
When he like Poet yet remaines, as those
Are Painters who can only make a Rose.
From such your wits redeeme you, or your chance,
Lest to a greater height you doe advance
Of Folly, to contemne those that are knowne
Artificers, and trust such as are none.
That Mirth by no meanes fits a Pastorall;
Such say so, who can make none, he presumes:
Else, there's no Scene, more properly assumes
The Sock. For whence can sport in kind arise,
But from the Rurall Routs and Families?
Safe on this ground then, wee not feare to day,
To tempt your laughter by our rustick Play.
Wherein if we distaste, or be cry'd downe,
Wee thinke wee therefore shall not leave the Towne;
Nor that the Fore-wits, that would draw the rest
Vnto their liking, alwayes like the best.
The wise, and knowing Critick will not say,
This worst, or better is, before he weigh;
120
And then, though in themselves he difference find,
Yet if the place require it where they stood,
The equall fitting makes them equall good.
You shall have Love and Hate, and Iealousie,
As well as Mirth, and Rage, and Melancholy:
Or whatsoever else may either move,
Or stirre affections, and your likings prove.
But that no stile for Pastorall should goe
Current, but what is stamp'd with Ah, and O;
Who judgeth so, may singularly erre;
As if all Poesie had one Character:
In which what were not written, were not right,
Or that the man who made such one poore flight,
In his whole life, had with his winged skill
Advanc'd him upmost on the Muses hill.
When he like Poet yet remaines, as those
Are Painters who can only make a Rose.
From such your wits redeeme you, or your chance,
Lest to a greater height you doe advance
Of Folly, to contemne those that are knowne
Artificers, and trust such as are none.
| The Sad Shepherd :or, A Tale of Robin-Hood | |