 | The Phaenix In Her Flames |  |
Prologue.
This aire shall be perfum'd, and every senceDelighted with sweet smelling frankinsence
And aromatick fumes: for please you know,
Gentle Spectators, from our Sceane doth grow
Abundance of such fragrant stuffe, you'll see
A Play that breathes Arabian spicerie,
And such a dolefull story as may take
Your minds to see a Prince and Princesse fate
Presented, and their hard adventures showne,
Yea make you weepe, and think they are your own:
Our Poet feares none but the common wits,
Who think a Sceane's not good unles it fits
Their merry humours with some apish toyes,
And peevish jeasts fancyed by girles and boyes,
Despis'd by abler judgements, who desire
A sad and solid matter, such a fire
Is kindled for you heere; we feare no blame
Shall brand our Phænix in her Funerall flame.
| The Phaenix In Her Flames | |