 | A Covrtly Masqve |  |
Prologvs.
This our Deuice, wee doe not call a Play,Because we breake the Stages Lawes to day
Of Acts & Sceanes, somtimes a Comick straine
Hath hit delight home in the Master-vayne:
Thalia's prize, Melpomine's sad stile,
Hath shooke the Tragicke hand another while;
The Muse of Historie hath caught your eyes,
And she chaunts the pastor all Psalteries:
We now lay claime to none, yet all present
Seeking out pleasure to finde your content;
You shall perceiue by what comes first in sight,
It was intended for a Royall Night.
There's one houres words, the rest in Songs & Dances,
Lauds no mans owne, no man himselfe aduances,
No man is lifted but by other hands,
Say he could leape, he lights but where he stands:
Such is our fate; if good, much good may't doe you,
If not (sorry) weele lose our labours wi you.
| A Covrtly Masqve | |