University of Virginia Library

To my deserving friend S: H: on his excellent Tragedy, called the Fatall Union.

Ingenious friend,

T'adorne thy head, Apollo will not spare
From violence his Daphne's tempting haire;
Lo yon the Muses carrying circled boughs
Strive, who should first come neare, and wreath thy browes;
But sad Melpomene, (who knowes her right
And title to the matter that you write.)
Casts off the heavy buskins, which shee wore,
Quickens her leaden pace, and runnes before;
Hyes to pale Shakespeares urne, and from his tombe
Takes up the bayes, and hither she is come;
Thalia is her second who concludes
Thee her's, from thy true Comicke interludes;
The rest on Clio lay their crownes, that fame,
May'nt want a bayes, when shee but sings thy name.
Ben is deceas'd, and yet I dare avow.
(Without that booke) Ben's redivivus now,
I could beleeve a Metempsycosis,
And that thy soule were not thine owne, but his
Or else the Genius which did wait upon
His worthy quill serves thee, now he is gone;
But I observe this difference, thy braine
Vents fancies with a pleasure, his with paine;
His were mature indeed, they went full time
Before they were deliver'd into rime;
Thine were conceiv'd, brought forth at once, yet may
As they are faire, be as long-liv'd as they;
Who reads thy play-worke (Friend) needs not compell,
Or force thy lines to make them paralell
With his, unlesse 'cause thou contract'st in one
Small part, what he in a whole play has done.
His humorists in thy Alphonso ly:
Sejanus, Catiline's damn'd treachery


Lives in Ursini's treasons, there is not
Ben's Fox can scape the policy o'th plot.
'Tis true, thine never walk't upon the stage,
In fine, gay clothes (the praysers of this age,)
Nor in a full throng'd theater did'st begge
Confus'd applause, with a cring'd Courtiers legge;
Such flatteries would abuse thy poëm, thou
Had'st nere an entrance, though an exit now;
Thine is expos'd unto the worlds large eye,
In it's unchang'd and native infancie,
Before some Players braine new drencht in sacke
Do's clap each terme new fancies on it's backe;
Or in'ts front t'beares this apology
For th'Stationer, it tooke his Majestie,
After a third presentment, thou hast none
Of these poore succours, thine is meere thy owne;
And that so singular as thou may'st dare
The quickest wit, severest censurer
To view't, review it, and at length receive
From thy intended enemy a wreathe,
Nich. Downey, A. B. e C. Ex.