27. THE FATAL DOWRY. T. Acted by the King's 33. THE ORATOR. Acted June 10, 1635, by the

COMMENDATORY VERSES

ON

MASSINGER.

UPON THIS WORK, "THE DUKE OF MILAN," OF HIS BELOVED FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

I AM snapt already, and may go my way;

The poet-critic's come; I hear him say

This youth's mistook, the author's work's a play.

He could not miss it, he will straight appear
At such a bait; 'twas laid on purpose there,
To take the vermin, and I have him here.
Sirrah! you will be nibbling; a small bit,
A syllable, when you're in the hungry fit,
Will serve to stay the stomach of your wit.

Fool, knave, what worse, for worse cannot deprave thee;
And were the devil now instantly to have thee,

Thou canst not instance such a work to save thee,

'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose,
And what thou stylest thy Poems, ill as those,
And void of rhyme and reason, thy worse prose:

Yet like a rude jack-sauce in poesy,
With thoughts unblest, and hand unmannerly,
Ravishing branches from Apollo's tree;

Thou mak'st a garland, for thy touch unfit,
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it,
As if it were the supreme head of wit :

The blameless Muses blush; who not allow
That reverend order to each vulgar brow,
Whose sinful touch profanes the holy bough.
Hence, shallow prophet! and admire the strain
Of thine own pen, or thy poor cope-mate's vein;
This piece too curious is for thy coarse brain.
Here wit, more fortunate, is join'd with art,
And that most sacred frenzy bears a part,
Infused by nature in the Poet's heart.

Here may the puny wits themselves direct,
Here may the wisest find what to affect,
And kings may learn their proper dialect.

On then, dear friend! thy pen, thy name, shall spread,
And shouldst thou write, while thou shalt not be read,
The Muse must labour, when thy hand is dead.

W. B.

THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND TO THE READER, ON THE "BONDMAN."

The printer's haste calls on; I must not drive

My time past six, though I begin at five.
One hour I have entire, and 'tis enough;
Here are no gipsy jigs, no drumming-stuff,
Dances, or other trumpery to delight,
Or take, by common way, the common sight.
The author of this poem, as he dares
To stand the austerest censure, so he cares
As little what it is; his own best way
Is, to be judge, and author of his play :
It is his knowledge makes him thus secure ;
Nor does he write to please, but to endure.
And, reader, if you have disbursed a shilling,
To see this worthy story, and are willing
To have a large increase, if ruled by me,
You may a merchant and a poet be.
'Tis granted for your twelve-pence you did sit,
And see, and hear, and understand not yet.
The author, in a Christian pity, takes
Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes;
That such as will but venture sixpence more,
May know what they but saw and heard before :
"Twill not be money lost, if you can read,

(There's all the doubt now,) but your gains exceed,
If you can understand, and you are made
Free of the freest and the noblest trade;
And in the way of poetry, now-a-days,

Of all that are call'd works, the best are plays.

W. B.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND, MASTER PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS "RENEGADO."

TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER PIIILIP MASSINGER, ON HIS PLAY CALLED "THE RENEGADO."

The bosom of a friend cannot breathe forth
A flattering phrase to speak the noble worth
Of him that hath lodged in his honest breast
So large a title : I, among the rest

That honour thee, do only seem to praise,
Wanting the flowers of art to deck that bays
Merit has crown'd thy temples with. Know, friend,
Though there are some who merely do commend
To live i' the world's opinion, such as can
Censure with judgment, no such piece of man
Makes up my spirit : where desert does live,
There will I plant my wonder, and there give
My best endeavours to build up his story
That truly merits. I did ever glory

To behold virtue rich; though cruel Fate
In scornful malice does beat low their state

That best deserve; when others, that but know
Only to scribble, and no more, oft grow

Great in their favours, that would seem to be
Patrons of wit, and modest poesy:

Yet, with your abler friends, let me say this,
Many may strive to equal you, but miss

Of your fair scope; this work of yours men may
Throw in the face of envy, and then say

To those, that are in great men's thoughts more blest,
Imitate this, and call that work your best.

Yet wise men, in this, and too often, err,
When they their love before the work prefer.
If I should say more, some may blame me for't,
Seeing your merits speak you, not report.

DANIEL LAKYN.

TO HIS DEAR FRIEND THE AUTHOR, ON "THE ROMAN ACTOR."

I am no great admirer of the plays,
Poets, or actors, that are now-a-days;

Yet, in this work of thine, methinks I see
Sufficient reason for idolatry.

Each line thou hast taught Cæsar is as high
As he could speak, when groveling flattery,
And his own pride (forgetting heaven's rod)
By his edicts styled himself great Lord and God.
By thee, again the laurel crowns his head,
And, thus revived, who can affirm him dead?
Such power lies in this lofty strain as can
Give swords and legions to Domitian :
And when thy Paris pleads in the defence
Of actors, every grace and excellence
Of argument for that subject, are by thee
Contracted in a sweet epitome.

Nor do thy women the tired hearers vex
With language no way proper to their sex.
Just like a cunning painter thou let'st fall
Copies more fair than the original.

I'll add but this: from all the modern plays

The stage hath lately born, this wins the bays;
And if it come to trial, boldly look

To carry it clear, thy witness being thy book.

T. J.

IN PHILIPPI MASSINGERI, POETÆ ELEGANTISS. ACTOREM ROMANUM, TYPIS EXCUSUM.

Δεκαστικόν.

Ecce Philippinæ celebrata Tragoedia Musæ,

Quam Roseus Britonum Roscius egit, adest.
Semper fronde ambo vireant Parnasside, semper
Liber ab invidiæ dentibus esto, liber.
Crebra papyrivori spernas incendia pæti,
Thus, vænum expositi tegmina suta libri :
Nec metuas raucos, Momorum sibila, rhoncos,
Tam bardus nebulo si tamen ullus erit.

Nam toties festis, actum, placuisse theatris

Quod liquet, hoc, cusum, crede, placebit, opus.

THO. GOFF.

TO HIS DESERVING FRIEND, MR. PHILIP MASSINGER, UPON HIS TRAGEDY.
"THE ROMAN ACTOR."

Paris, the best of actors in his age,

Acts yet, and speaks upon our Roman stage

Such lines by thee, as do not derogate

From Rome's proud heights, and her then learned state.

Nor great Domitian's favour; nor the embraces

Of a fair empress, nor those often graces

Which from th' applauding theatres were paid

To his brave action, nor his ashes laid

In the Flaminian way, where people strow'd

His grave with flowers, and Martial's wit bestow'd

A lasting epitaph; not all these same

Do add so much renown to Paris' name

As this, that thou present'st his history

So well to us: for which, in thanks, would he,
(If that his soul, as thought Pythagoras,
Could into any of our actors pass,)

Life to these lines by action gladly give,
Whose pen so well has made his story live.

THO. MAY.

UPON MR. MASSINGER HIS "ROMAN ACTOR."

To write is grown so common in our time,
That every one who can but frame a rhyme,
However monstrous, gives himself that praise,
Which only he should claim, that may wear bays
By their applause, whose judgments apprehend
The weight and truth of what they dare commend.
In this besotted age, friend, 'tis thy glory
That here thou hast outdone the Roman story.
Domitian's pride, his wife's lust, unabated
In death, with Paris, merely were related,

Without a soul, until thy abler pen

Spoke them, and made them speak, nay act again
In such a height, that here to know their deeds,
He may become an actor that but reads.

JOHN FORD.