 | The Cardinall |  |
To the surviving Honour and Ornament of the English Scene, Iames Shirley.
As Fate, which doth all human matters sway,Makes proudest things grow up into decay;
And when they are to envyed greatness grown,
She wantonly falls off, and throws them down:
So, when our English Dramma was at hight,
And shin'd, and rul'd with Majesty and might,
A sudden whirlwind threw it from it seat,
Deflowr'd the Groves, and quench'd the Muses heat.
Yet as in Saints, and Martyr'd bodies, when
They cannot call their blessed Souls agen
To earth; Reliques, and ashes men preserve,
And think they do, but what, blest they deserve:
So I, by my devotion led, aspire
To keep alive your noble Vestal fire,
Honour this piece, which shews, Sir, you have been
The last supporter of the dying Scene;
And though I do not tell you, how you dress
Virtue in gloryes, and bold vice depress;
Nor celebrate your lovely Dutchess fall,
Or the just ruine of your Cardinal;
Yet this I dare assert, when men have nam'd
Iohnson (the Nations Laureat,) the fam'd
Beaumont, and Fletcher, he, that wo'not see
Shirley, the fourth, must forfeit his best ey.
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