 | The Lovers Melancholy |  |
To his worthy Friend, the Author, Master Iohn Ford.
I write not to thy Play: Ile not beginTo throw a censure vpon what hath been
By th'Best approu'd; It can nor feare, nor want
The Rage, or Liking of the Ignorant.
Nor seeke I Fame for Thee, when thine owne Pen
Hath forc'd a praise long since, from knowing Men.
I speake my thoughts, and wish vnto the Stage
A glory from thy studies; that the Age
Of purer language, and that Spight may grieue
To see It selfe out-done. When Thou art read,
The Theater may hope Arts are not dead,
Though long conceal'd; that Poet-Apes may feare
To vent their weaknesse, mend, or quite forbeare.
This I dare promise; and keepe this in store;
As thou hast done enough, Thou canst doe more.
William Singleton.
| The Lovers Melancholy | |