To my Honoured Friend, Master JOHN FORD, on his "Lover's Melancholy."

IF that thou think'st these lines thy worth can raise,

Thou dost mistake: my liking is no praise;
Nor can I think thy judgment is so ill
To seek for bays from such a barren quill.
Let your true critic, that can judge and mend,
Allow thy scenes and style: I, as a friend
That knows thy worth, do only stick my name
To show my love, not to advance thy fame.

GEORGE DONNE.

To his worthy Friend, the Author of "The Lover's
Melancholy," Master JOHN FORD.

I write not to thy play: I'll not begin
To throw a censure upon what hath been

By th' best approved: it can nor fear, nor want
The rage, or liking of the ignorant.

Nor seek I fame for thee, when thine own pen
Hath forced a praise long since, from knowing men.
I speak my thoughts, and wish unto the stage

A glory from thy studies; that the age
May be indebted to thee, for reprieve
Of purer language, and that spite may grieve
To see itself outdone. When thou art read,
The theatre may hope arts are not dead,
Though long concealed; that poet-apes may fear
To vent their weakness, mend, or quite forbear.
This I dare promise; and keep this in store,-
As thou hast done enough, thou canst do more.

WILLIAM SINGLETON.

To my Friend, the Author of "'Tis Pity she's a
Whore."

With admiration I beheld this Whore,
Adorned with beauty, such as might restore
(If ever being, as thy muse hath famed)
Her Giovanni, in his love unblamed :
The ready Graces lent their willing aid;
Pallas herself now played the chambermaid
And helped to put her dressings on. Secure
Rest thou that thy name herein shall endure
To th' end of age and Annabella be
Gloriously fair, even in her infamy.

THOMAS ELLICE.

To the Author of the "Lover's Melancholy,"
Master JOHN FORD.

Black choler, reason's overflowing spring,
Where thirsty lovers drink, or anything,
Passion, the restless current of dull plaints
Affords their thoughts, who deem lost beauties
saints;

Here their best lectures read, collect, and see
Various conditions of humanity,

Highly enlighten'd by thy muse's rage;
Yet all so couch'd that they adorn'd the stage.
Shun Phocion's blushes thou; for sure to please
It is no sin, then what is thy disease?
Judgment's applause? effeminated smiles?
Study's delight? thy wit mistrust beguiles :
Establish'd fame will thy physician be,
(Write but again) to cure thy jealousy.

Dare speak this piece, in words, in matter,

A work, without the danger of a lie.
Believe me, friend, the name of this and thee,
Will live, your story:
Books may want faith, or merit glory;
This neither, without judgment's lethargy.
When the arts doat, then some sick poet may
Hope that his pen,

In new-stained paper, can find men
To roar, "He is the Wit;" his noise doth sway:
But such an age cannot be known; for all

Ere that time be,

Must prove such truth, mortality: So, friend, thy honour stands too fix'd to fall.

GEORGE DONNE.

To Master JOHN FORD, of the Middle Temple, on his "Bower of Fancies, or Fancies Chaste and Noble."

I follow fair example, not report,

Like wits o' th' university or court,

To show how I can write,

At mine own charges, for the time's delight:
But to acquit a debt,

Due to right poets, not the counterfeit.

These Fancies Chaste and Noble are no strains
Dropt from the itch of over-heated brains :
They speak unblushing truth,

The guard of beauty, and the care of youth;
Well relish'd might repair

An academy for the young and fair.

Such labours, friend, will live; for though some new Pretenders to the stage, in haste pursue,

Those laurels, which of old

Enrich'd the actors: yet I can be bold,

To say, their hopes are starv'd;

For they but beg what pens approv'd deserv'd.

EDW. GREENFIELD.

Upon "The Sun's Darling."

Is he then found? Phoebus, make holiday,
Tie up thy steeds, and let the Cyclops play:
Mulciber, leave thy anvil, and be trim;
Comb thy black muzzle, be no longer grim:
Mercury, be quick, with mirth furnish the heavens,
Jove, this day let all run at six and sevens ;
And Ganimede, be nimble, to the brim
Fill bowls of nectar, that the Gods may swim,
To solemnise their health that did discover
The obscure being of the sun's fond lover;
That from the example of their liberal mirth
We may enjoy like freedom [here] on earth.

JOHN TATHAM.

To his worthy Friend, Master JOHN FORD, upon his "Perkin Warbeck."

Let men, who are writ poets, lay a claim
To the Phoebean hill, I have no name,
Nor art in verse; true, I have heard some tell
Of Aganippe, but ne'er knew the well:
Therefore have no ambition with the times,
To be in print, for making of ill rhymes;
But love of thee, and justice to thy pen,
Hath drawn me to this bar, with other men
To justify, though against double laws,
(Waving the subtle business of his cause,)
The GLORIOUS PERKIN, and thy poet's art,
Equal with his, in playing the king's part.
RA. EURE, Baronis primogenitus.

To the Author, his Friend, upon his Chronicle
History of" Perkin Warbeck."

These are not to express thy wit,
But to pronounce thy judgment fit,
In full-filled phrase, those times to raise,
When Perkin ran his wily ways.
Still, let the method of thy brain
From Error's touch and Envy's stain
Preserve thee free; that ever thy quill
Fair Truth may wet, and Fancy fill.
Thus Graces are with Muses met,
And practic critics on may fret:
For here thou hast produced a story
Which shall eclipse their future glory.
JOHN BROGRAVE, Ar.

To my faithful, no less deserving Friend, the Author of " Perkin Warbeck," this indebted oblation.

Perkin is rediviv'd by thy strong hand,

And crown'd a king of new; the vengeful wand
Of greatness is forgot; his execution
May rest unmention'd, and his birth's collusion
Lie buried in the story; but his fame
Thou hast eternis'd; made a crown his game.
His lofty spirit soars yet: had he been
Base in his enterprise, as was his sin
Conceiv'd, his title, doubtless, prov'd unjust,
Had, but for thee, been silenc'd in the dust.
GEORGE CRYMES, Miles.

Upon FORD's two Tragedies,

"Love's Sacrifice" and "The Broken Heart."

Thou cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seem two by

art:

What is Love's Sacrifice, but The Broken Heart? RICHARD CRASHAW.

The frothy foams of Neptune's surging waves,
When blustering Boreas tosseth up the deep,
And thumps a thunder bounce!

Men. Sweet sir, 'tis nothing:

Straight comes a dolphin, playing near your ship,
Heaving his crooked back up, and presents

A feather-bed, to waft you to the shore,
As easily as if you slept i' th' court.
Pel. Indeed? is't true, I pray?

Men. I will not stretch

Your faith upon the tenters.-Prithee, Pelias,
Where did'st thou learn this language?

Pel. I this language?

Alas, sir, we that study words and forms
Of compliment, must fashion all discourse
According to the nature of the subject.
But I am silent :-now appears a sun,
Whose shadow I adore.

Enter AMETHUS, SOPHRONOS and Attendants.
Men. My honour'd father!

Soph. From mine eyes, son, son of my care, my love,

The joys that bid thee welcome, do too much
Speak me a child.

Men. O princely sir, your hand.

Amet. Perform your duties, where you owe them I dare not be so sudden in the pleasures

Thy presence hath brought home.

Soph. Here thou still find'st

A friend as noble, Menaphon, as when
Thou left'st at thy departure.

Men. Yes, I know it,

To him I owe more service

Amet. Pray give leave—

He shall attend your entertainments soon,

[first;

Next day, and next day ;-for an hour or two

I would engross him only.

Soph. Noble lord!

Amet. You are both dismiss'd.

Pel. Your creature and your servant.

[Exeunt all but AMETHUS and MENAPHON.

Amet. Give me thy hand.

Thou'rt welcome;

I will not say,

That is the common road of common friends.
I'm glad I have thee here-Oh! I want words
To let thee know my heart.

Men. 'Tis pieced to mine.

Amet. Yes, 'tis; as firmly as that holy thing Call'd friendship can unite it. Menaphon, My Menaphon! now all the goodly blessings, That can create a heaven on earth, dwell with thee!

Twelve months we have been sandered; but henceforth

We never more will part, till that sad hour,
In which death leaves the one of us behind,
To see the other's funerals performed.
Let's now a while be free.-How have thy travels
Disburthen'd thee abroad of discontents?

Men. Such cure as sick men find in changing I found in change of airs; the fancy flatter'd [beds, My hopes with ease, as their's do; but the grief Is still the same.

Amet. Such is my case at home.
Cleophila, thy kinswoman, that maid
Of sweetness and humility, more pities
Her father's poor afflictions, than the tide
Of my complaints.

Men. Thamasta, my great mistress,
Your princely sister, hath, I hope, ere this
Confirm'd affection on some worthy choice.

Amet. Not any, Menaphon. Her bosom yet
Is intermured with ice; though by the truth
Of love, no day hath ever pass'd, wherein

I have not mentioned thy deserts, thy constancy,
Thy-Come! in troth, I dare not tell thee what,
Lest thou might'st think I fawn'd on [thee]-a sin
Friendship was never guilty of; for flattery
Is monstrous in a true friend.

Men. Does the court Wear the old looks too?

Amet. If thou mean'st the prince,

It does. He's the same melancholy man,

He was at's father's death; sometimes speaks sense,
But seldom mirth; will smile, but seldom laugh;
Will lend an ear to business, deal in none :
Gaze upon revels, antick fopperies,

But is not mov'd; will sparingly discourse,
Hear music; but what most he takes delight in,
Are handsome pictures. One so young, and goodly,
So sweet in his own nature, any story

Hath seldom mention'd.

Men. Why should such as I am,

Groan under the light burthens of small sorrows,
Whenas a prince, so potent, cannot shun
Motions of passion? To be man, my lord,
Is to be but the exercise of cares

In several shapes; as miseries do grow,
They alter as men's forms; but how none know.
Amet. This little isle of Cyprus sure abounds
In greater wonders, both for change and fortune,
Than any you have seen abroad.

Men. Than any

I have observed abroad! all countries else

To a free eye and mind yield something rare; And I, for my part, have brought home one jewel Of admirable virtue.

Amet. Jewel, Menaphon?

Men. A jewel, my Amethus, a fair youth;
A youth, whom, if I were but superstitious,
I should repute an excellence more high,
Than mere creations are: to add delight,
I'll tell you how I found him.

Amet. Prithee do.

Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feign'd To glorify their Tempe, bred in me, Desire of visiting that paradise.

To Thessaly I came; and living private,

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions,
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves,
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention,
That art [and] nature ever were at strife in.
Amet. I cannot yet conceive, what you infer
By art and nature.

Men. I shall soon resolve you.

A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather
Indeed, entranced my soul: As I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute,
With strains of strange variety and harmony,
Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, .
That, as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
Amet. And so do I; good! on-
Men. A nightingale,

Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
The challenge, and for every several strain

[own;

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her
He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument, than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to for a voice, and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe

That such they were, than hope to hear again.
Amet. How did the rivals part?
Men. You term them rightly;

For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony.-
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird

Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice :
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
Amet. Now for the bird.

Men. The bird, ordain'd to be
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate

These several sounds: which, when her warbling

throat

And interruption.-But, my princely friend,
It was not strange the music of his hand
Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty,
Youth, carriage and discretion must, from men
Indued with reason, ravish admiration :
From me, they did.

Amet. But is this miracle
Not to be seen?

Men. I won him by degrees

To choose me his companion. Whence he is,
Or who, as I durst modestly inquire,
So gently he would woo not to make known;
Only (for reasons to himself reserv'd)
He told me, that some remnant of his life
Was to be spent in travel: for his fortunes,
They were nor mean, nor riotous; his friends
Not publish'd to the world, though not obscure;
His country Athens, and his name Parthenophill.
Amet. Came he with you to Cyprus?

Men. Willingly.

The fame of our young melancholy prince, Meleander's rare distractions, the obedience Of young Cleophila, Thamasta's glory,

Your matchless friendship, and my desperate love Prevail'd with him; and I have lodg'd him privately In Famagosta.

Amet. Now thou art doubly welcome :

I will not lose the sight of such a rarity
For one part of my hopes. When do you intend
To visit my great-spirited sister?
Men. May I

Grow up, and make new laws to license folly;
Why should not I, a May-game, scorn the weight
Of my sunk fortunes? snarl at the vices
Which rot the land, and, without fear or wit,
Be mine own antick? 'Tis a sport to live
When life is irksome, if we will not hug
Prosperity in others, and contemn

Affliction in ourselves. This rule is certain :
"He that pursues his safety from the school
"Of state, must learn to be madman or fool."
Ambition, wealth, ease I renounce the devil
That damns you here on earth.-Or I will be
Mine own mirth, or mine own tormentor.-So!

Enter PELIAS.

Here comes intelligence; a buzz o' the court.