 | The Fayre Mayde of the Exchange |  |
Prologus.
The humble Socke that true Comedians were,
Our Muse hath don'd, and to your fav'ring eyes,
In lowest Plaine-song doth her selfe appeare,
Borrowing no colours from a quaint disguise:
If your faire fauours cause her spirite to rise,
Shee to the highest pitch her wings shall reare,
And prowd quothurnicke action shall deuise,
To winne your sweete applause she deemes so deare.
Our Muse hath don'd, and to your fav'ring eyes,
In lowest Plaine-song doth her selfe appeare,
Borrowing no colours from a quaint disguise:
If your faire fauours cause her spirite to rise,
Shee to the highest pitch her wings shall reare,
And prowd quothurnicke action shall deuise,
To winne your sweete applause she deemes so deare.
Meane while shore vp our tender pamping twig,
That yet on humble ground doth lowely lie:
Your fauours sunneshine guilding once this sprig,
It may yeeld Nectar for the gods on hie:
Though our Inuention lame, imperfect be,
Yet giue the Cripple almes for charitie.
Exit.
That yet on humble ground doth lowely lie:
Your fauours sunneshine guilding once this sprig,
It may yeeld Nectar for the gods on hie:
Though our Inuention lame, imperfect be,
Yet giue the Cripple almes for charitie.
| The Fayre Mayde of the Exchange | |