 | The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards |  |
VPON THE TRAGICK MVSE OF MY HONOVR'D FRIEND, Mr. Wm. D'avenant.
Ovr stately Tragick Scene (whose high disdainesSlight humble Muses) courts thy lofty straines:
And with ambitious loue doth clime thy Bayes,
Whose ample branches her bright glory rayes:
Whence (as from Heauen) her spacious Eye doth view
Of storyed teares, and blood, the heauy crue,
How low they crawle, while she (farre more Diuine!)
Sides great Seianus, and fierce Cateline:
Where, in calme vertue, she more sweet doth shew
Then Ioue, when he in Golden drops did flow:
But if in Stygian Lake her veines she steepe,
Her act infernall runnes so horrid deepe,
As saints Medea: makes th'Herculian rage
Seeme a tame patience to thy rauisht Stage.
Had sterne Achilles brest such fury knowne;
His Story had turn'd Miracle, and growne
Too much for his great Poet, vnlesse Fate
Had rackt his spirit vp to thy high rate.
Rash Imitation at thy heauenly Ayre,
Intombes faint Enuy in aiust despaire.
Hen: Blount.
| The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards | |