The poems of William Habington Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott |
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 | PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES AND SONGS FROM THE QUEENE OF ARRAGON 1640 |
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 | The poems of William Habington |  |
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PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES AND SONGS FROM THE QUEENE OF ARRAGON 1640
The Prologue at Court.
Had not obedience ov'rrul'd the Authors feareAnd Judgement too, this humble peece had nere
Approacht so high a Majestie, not writ
By the exact and subtile rules of wit,
Ambitious for the splendor of this night
But fashion'd up in hast for his owne delight.
This, by my Lord, with as much zeale as ere
Warm'd the most loyall heart, is offered here
To make this night your pleasure, although we
Who are the Actors, feare twill rather be
Your patience: and if any mirth; we may
Sadly suspect, twill rise quite the wrong way.
But you have mercy sir, and from your eye
Bright Madam, never yet did lightning flye,
But vitall beames of favour such as give
A growth to all, who can deserve to live.
Why should the Authour tremble then, or we
Distresse our hopes, and such tormentors be,
Of our owne thoughts, since in those happie times
We live, when mercie's greater than the crimes.
The Prologue at the Fryers.
Ere we begin, that no man may repentTwo shillings and his time; the Author sent
The Prologue, with the errors of his Play,
That who will, may take his money and away.
First for the Plot it's no way intricate
By crosse deceits in love, nor so high in state:
That we might have given out in our Play-bill
This day's the Prince writ by Nick Machivill,
The Language too is easie, such as fell
Unstudyed from his pen, not like a spell
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The halfe witted, and confound the ignorant.
Then what must needes afflict the Amorist,
No Virgin here in breeches casts a mist
Before her Lovers eyes; No Ladies tell
How their blood boyles, how high their veines doe swell.
But what is worse no bawdy mirth is here;
(The wit of bottle Ale, and double Beere)
To make the wife of Citizen protest,
And Country Justice sweare twas a good Jest.
Now sirs you have the errors of his wit:
Like or dislike, at your owne perills be't.
The Song in the second Act.
Not the Phœnix in his death
Nor those banckes where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow,
Yeeld a perfume like her breath.
But ô! Marriage makes the spell:
And tis poyson if I smell.
Nor those banckes where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow,
Yeeld a perfume like her breath.
But ô! Marriage makes the spell:
And tis poyson if I smell.
The twin beauties of the skies
(When the halfe suncke saylors hast,
To rend saile and cut their mast)
Shine not welcome as her eyes.
But those beames, then stormes more blacke,
If they point at me I wracke.
(When the halfe suncke saylors hast,
To rend saile and cut their mast)
Shine not welcome as her eyes.
But those beames, then stormes more blacke,
If they point at me I wracke.
Then for feare of such a fire,
Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite:
I must from my life retire.
But ô no! for if her eye
Warme me not; I freeze, and dye.
Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite:
I must from my life retire.
But ô no! for if her eye
Warme me not; I freeze, and dye.
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The Song in the fourth Act.
Fine young folly, though you were
That faire beauty I did sweare,
Yet you neere could reach my heart.
For we Courtiers learne at Schoole,
Onely with your sex to foole,
Y'are not worth the serious part.
That faire beauty I did sweare,
Yet you neere could reach my heart.
For we Courtiers learne at Schoole,
Onely with your sex to foole,
Y'are not worth the serious part.
When I sigh and kisse your hand,
Crosse my Armes and wondring stand:
Holding parley with your eye,
Then dilate on my desires,
Sweare the sunne nere shot such fires,
All is but a handsome lye.
Crosse my Armes and wondring stand:
Holding parley with your eye,
Then dilate on my desires,
Sweare the sunne nere shot such fires,
All is but a handsome lye.
When I eye your curle or Lace,
Gentle soule you thinke your face
Streight some murder doth commit,
And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sinne,
When I talke to shew my wit.
Gentle soule you thinke your face
Streight some murder doth commit,
And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sinne,
When I talke to shew my wit.
Therefore Madam weare no cloud
Nor to checke my love grow proud,
For in sooth I much doe doubt
'Tis the powder in your haire,
Not your breath perfumes the ayre,
And your Cloathes that set you out.
Nor to checke my love grow proud,
For in sooth I much doe doubt
'Tis the powder in your haire,
Not your breath perfumes the ayre,
And your Cloathes that set you out.
Yet though truth has this confest,
And I vow I love in Iest:
When I next begin to Court
And protest an amorous flame,
You will sweare I in earnest am:
Bedlam! this is pretty sport.
And I vow I love in Iest:
When I next begin to Court
And protest an amorous flame,
You will sweare I in earnest am:
Bedlam! this is pretty sport.
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The Epilogue at Court.
We have nothing left us but our blushes nowFor your much pennance, and though we allow
Our feares no Comfort, since you must appeare
Iudges Corrupt, if not to us severe:
Yet in your Majestie we hope to finde
A mercy; and in that our pardon sign'd.
And how can we despaire you will forgive
Them who would please, when oft offenders live;
And if we have er'd, may not the Curteous say;
Twas not their trade, and but the Authors Play.
The Epilogue at the Fryers.
What shall the Author doe? it madnesse wereTo entreat a mercy from you who are severe,
Sterne Iudges and a pardon never give,
For onely merit with you makes things live:
He leaves you therefore to your selves and may
You gently quit or else condemne the Play,
As in an upright Conscience you will thinke fit,
Your sentence is the life and death of wit.
The Author yet hath one safe plea, that though
A Middlesex Iury on his play should goe,
They cannot finde the murther wilfull, since
Twas Acted by Command, in his owne defence.
| The poems of William Habington | |