 | The Rebellion |  |
To the ingenious Author.
A sowre and austere kind of men there be,That would out-law the lawes of Poesie;
And from a Common-wealths well govern'd Lists,
Some grave and too much severe Platonists,
Would exclude Poets: and have emnity
With the soules freedome, ingenuity.
These are so much for wisedome, they forget
That Heaven allow'th the use of modest wit.
These thinke the Author of a jest alone,
Is the man that deserves damnation:
Holding mirth vitious, and to laugh a sin:
Yet we must give these Cynicks leave to grin.
What will they thinke, when they shall see thee in
The plaines of faire Elizium? sit among
A crowned troope of Poets? and a throng
Of ancient Bardes, which soule-delighting Quire;
Sings daily Anthemnes to Apolloes Lyre.
Amongst which thou shalt sit; and crowned thus,
Shalt laugh at Cato and Democritus.
Thus shall thy Bayes be superscrib'd; my Pen
Did not alone make Playes, but also men.
E. B.
| The Rebellion | |