 | The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards |  |
To my Friend, Mr. D'auenant.
Scarce home return'd, but straight I finde great FameAyring her wings to spread abroad thy Name.
One of the Nine (before of me ne'r seene,
Sure sent by thee) assaults my merry spleene
With mighty Verse; and makes me laugh at those
That are so dull, to melt their thoughts in Prose.
I wish her prosp'rous flight, may she returne
With happier wings, if happier may be worne.
My flame is spent. I dare not vndertake
Thy praise, who am but newly for thy sake
A fierce Poet, and doubtlesse had been one
Ne'r but for thee, or else had been vnknowne.
Rog: Lorte.
| The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards | |