 | The Lovers Melancholy |  |
To the Author, Master Iohn Ford.
Blacke choler, Reasons ouer-flowing Spring,Where thirsty Louers drinke, or any Thing,
Passion, the restlesse current of dull plaints
Affords their thoughts, who deeme lost beauties, Saints:
Here their best Lectures read, collect, and see
Various conditions of Humanitie
Highly enlighten'd by thy Muses rage;
Yet all so coucht, that they adorn'd the Stage.
Shun Phocions blushes thou; for sure to please
It is no sinne, then what is thy disease?
Iudgements applause? effeminated smiles?
Studie's delight? thy wit mistrust beguiles:
Establisht Fame will thy Physicion be,
(Write but againe) to cure thy Iealousie.
Hum. Howorth.
| The Lovers Melancholy | |