 | The citye match |  |
THE PROLOGVE TO THE KING AND QUEENE.
The Author, Royall Sir, so dreads this Night,As if for writing he were doomd to th'sight.
Or else, unlesse you doe protect his fame,
Y'had sav'd his Play, and sentenc'd him to th'flame.
For though your name, or power, were ith' reprive,
Such workes, he thinks, are but condemn'd to live.
Which, for this place being rescued from the fire,
Take ruine from th'advancement, and fall higher.
Though None, he hopes, sit here upon his wit,
As if he Poems did, or Playes commit.
Yet he must needs feare censure, that feares prayse,
Nor would write still wer't to succeed ith' Bayes.
For he is not oth' trade, nor would excell
In this kinde, where tis lightnesse to doe well.
Yet as the Gods refin'd base things, and some
Beasts foule ith' Heard grevv pure ith' Hecatombe;
And as the Oxe prepar'd, and crowned Bull
Are Offerings, though kept back, and Altars full:
So, Mighty Sir, this sacrifice being neere
The Knife at Oxford, which y'have kindled here,
He hopes twill from you, and the Queene, grow cleane,
And turne t'Oblation, what He meant a Scene.
| The citye match | |