 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
Amico suo charissimo, ingeniosissimo, T. Randolpho, liberum de ejus Comœdia judicium.
Scatter their scribbles, and invade the presse.
Stage Poets ('tis their hard, yet common hap)
Break out like thunder, though without a clap.
Here 'tis not so; there's nothing now comes forth,
Which hath not for a licence its own worth.
No swagg'ring tearms, no taunts; for 'tis not right,
To think that onely toothsome which can bite.
See how the Lovers come in Virgin die,
And Rosie blush, ensignes of modestie,
Though once beheld by such with that content,
They need not fear others disparagement.
But I'le not tell their fortune, what e're't be,
Thou must needs know't, if skil'd in Palmestrie.
Thus much, where King applauds, I dare be bold
To say, 'Tis Pettie-treason to withhold.
Edward Hide.
| The Jealous Lovers | |