 | The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards |  |
To his worthy friend, Mr. Wm. D'auenant.
Hast thou vnmaskt thy Muse? And shall the AireBreathe on her matchlesse Fabrick? then repaire
To some soft censure, lest the churlish sence
Of Ignorance accrues thy recompence;
And hudwinkt Error doe surprize the Fame
Due to thy Story, and Verona's name,
Whose limits Plinies and Catullus bred,
But in thy Muse her ioyes are centupled:
For her inuention, truth, rare wit, and state;
Copper-lac'd Christians cannot personate.
Her Tragick Scenes, like well-tun'd Chimes ith' Skie,
Leaue Time loud Ecchoes of thy memorie.
H: Howard.
| The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards | |