 | A Tragedy called All's Lost by Lvst |  |
Prologue.
Thus from the Poet am I bid to say,He knowes what Iudges sit to doome each Play,
(The over-curious Criticke, or the wise)
The one with squint, t'other with sunne-like eyes,
Shootes through each Scæne: the one cry as all things downe,
T'other hides strangers faults close as his owne,
Las! those who out of custome come to geere,
(Sung the full quire of the nine Muses here)
So carping, not from wit, but apish spite,
And fetherd ignorance, thus our Poet does slight.
T'is not a gay sute, or distorted face,
Can beate his merit off, which has wonne grace
In the full Theater, nor can now feare
The teeth of any snakie whisperer:
But to the white, and sweet unclouded brow,
(The heaven where true worth moves) our Poet does bow;
Patrons of Arts, and Pilots to the Stage,
Who guide it (through all tempests) from the rage
Of envious whirle-windes. O doe you but steere
His Muse this day, and bring her tot'h wish'd shore,
You are those Delphicke powers, whom shee'le adore.
| A Tragedy called All's Lost by Lvst | |