Hippolitus translated out of Seneca by Edmund Prestwich ; together with divers other poems of the same authors.

To my Worthy Friend M^r Edmund Prestwich,on his Transla∣tion of Hippolitus.

HArd is thy Fate (great wit) thus to advance Thy Poem in this age of Ignorance, To send it forth in such a time as this, Where none must judge but such as judge amisse; Course fordid censurers, that thinke their eyes Abus'd if sixt, on ought but Mercuries, When honest judgements will not doubt to swear Thy work deserves an Amphitheatre.

Nor is this piece such as of late hath been The tedious stuff•• of Poetasters seen, Wit to a nobler height, doth thine intend; No common labour to no common end: For by thy Version wee are taught anew, T'interpret what we vainly thought we knew But still mistook; so that in this we finde Thou canst do Mira••les, and cure the blinde.

The Orac'lous mist from Seneca is fled, Which with fresh Laurel, crowns his verdant head, And the black curtain of his clowded sense, Is drawn by thy exact Intelligence.

Hippolitus that erst was set upon By all, mangled by mis-construction Dis-membred by mis-prison, now by thee And thy ingenious Chirurgerie; Is re-united to his limbs, and grown Stronger as thine, then when great Theseus son.

Go on then wits example, and revive, What none but such as thee, can keep alive; Slack not the work for want of Industry For not a line, of those thou writ'st can die.

Char: Cotton.