 | Ormasdes |  |
To Envy.
Thou Snake that lurk'st under the Poets Bayes,Envy, confesse thy Malice to these Playes,
Art thou not vext to see the Plotts well lay'd,
The Language pure, and every Sentence weigh'd?
New Humours? Passion wrought up to that height,
Men weep, and yet their grief begets Delight?
All this by Nature done, which shows, the Arts
Infuse themselves, where they finde Wit and Parts.
Out of these Premises we may infer
Here will be no work for the Censurer;
The wiser Critick will do better first:
And for the Foolish, let him do his worst.
R. Stapylton.
| Ormasdes | |