 | The Guardian |  |
PROLOGUE.
After twice putting forth to Sea, his FameShipwrack'd in either, and his once known Name
In two years silence buried, perhaps lost
I'the general opinion; at our cost
(A zealous sacrifice to Neptune made
For good success in his uncertain trade)
Our Author weighs up anchors, and once more
Forsaking the security of the shore,
Resolves to prove his fortune: What 'twill be,
Is not in him, or us to prophesie;
You only can assure us. Yet he pray'd
This little in his absence might be said,
Designing me his Orator. He submits
To the grave censure of those abler Wits
His weakness; nor dares he profess that when
The Critiques laugh, he'l laugh at them agen.
(Strange felf-love in a writer!) He would know
His errors as you find 'em, and bestow
His future studies to reform from this
What in another might be judg'd amiss.
And yet despair not, Gentlemen; though he fear
His strengths to please, we hope that you shall hear
Some things so writ, as you may truly say
He hath not quite forgot to make a Play,
As 'tis with malice rumour'd. His intents
Are fair; and though he want the complements
Of wide-mouth'd Promisers, who still engage
(Before their Works are brought upon the Stage)
Their parasites to proclaim 'em: This last birth
Deliver'd without noise, may yield such mirth,
As ballanc'd equally, will cry down the boast
Of arrogance, and regain his credit lost.
| The Guardian | |