Poems, with a maske by Thomas Carew ... ; the songs were set in musick by Mr. Henry Lawes ...

To my worthy Friend, Master D'AVENANT, Vpon his excellent Play, The Iust Italian.

I'L not mispend in praise, the narrow room I borrow in this leaf; the Garlands bloom From thine own seeds, that crown each glorious page Of thy triumphant work; the sullen Age Requires a Satyre. What starre guides the soul Of these our froward times, that date controul, Yet dare not learn to judge? When didst thou fly From hence, clear, candid Ingenuity? I have beheld, when pearch'd on the smooth brow Of a fair modest troop; thou didst allow Applause to slighter workes; but then the weak Spectator, gave the knowing leave to spake. Now noyse prevailes, and he is tax'd for drowth Of wit, that with the cry, spends not his mouth Yet ask him; reason why he did not like; Him, why he did; their ignorance will strike Thy soul with scorn, and pitty: mark the places Provoke their smiles, frowns, or distorted faces, When they admire, nod, shake the head, they'l be A scene of myrth, a double Comedy. But thy strong fancies (raptures of the brain, Drest in Poeticke flames) they entertain

As a bold, impious reach; for they'l still slight All that exceeds Red Bull, and Cockpit flight, These are the men in crowded heaps that throng To that adulterate stage, where not a tongue Of th'untun'd Kennell, can a line repeat Of serious sense, but like lips, meet like meat; Whilst the true brood of Actors, that alone Keep naturall unstrain'd Action in her throne, Behold their Benches bare, though they rehearse The terser Beaumont's or great Iohnson's verse. Repine not Thou then, since this churlish fate Rules not the stage alone; perhaps the State Hath felt this rancour, where men great and good, Have by the Rabble been mis-understood. So was thy Play; whose clear, yet lofry strain, Wisemen, that govern Fate, shall entertain.