 | The Royall Slave |  |
The Epilogue to their Majesties at Hampton-Court.
The unfil'd Author, though he be assur'd,That a bad Poet is a thing secur'd,
Feare's yet he may miscarry, for some doe
Having just nothing, loose that nothing too.
His comfort's yet, that though the Incense fly
Foule and unwelcome, and so scatter'd die,
Neither the blot nor sinne can on him stand,
Being the Censer's in another hand.
For though the Peece be now mark'd his, and knowne,
Yet the Repeaters make that Peece their owne.
Being then a new Reciter some way is
Another Author, we are thus made his.
Wee therefore hope nothing, shall here be seene
To make the Slave appeale from King or Queene:
From your selves here, t'your selves at Oxford; grace
And favour altring with the time and Place,
So that some thence may deeme it happy fell
There only, where you meant to take all well.
'Tis then your Countenance that is the price
Must redeeme this, and free the Captive twice.
He feares ill fate the lesse, in that if you
Now kill him, you kill your owne favour too.
How e're he will not 'gainst injustice cry;
For you who made him live, may make him dy.
FINIS.
| The Royall Slave | |