Cambyses, King of Persia a tragedy ... / written by Elkanah Settle, Gent.

PROLOGUE.

WIth no small pains our Author has this day Brought on the Stage a damn'd dull serious play. But what the Devil is he like to gain? If Wits, like States, with a joynt pow'r might Reign, A Poet's labour then were worth the while, Could he plead Custom, and demand your smile. But that was ne're in fashion. Poets ought To write with the same Spirit Caesar fought: Indiff'rent Writers are contemn'd, for now There grow no Lawrels for a common brow: None but great Ben, Shakespear, or whom this Age Has made their Heirs, succeed now on the Stage. As Eagles trye their Young against the Sun; The self-same hazard all Young Writer•• run: They are accounted a false bastard Race That are not able to look Wit i'th' Face; And therefore must expect an equal Fate, To be disown'd as illegitimate: Thus conscious of their weaknesses and wants, They know their doom; as deserts to young Plants, You no more Mercy to Young writers show, You damn and blast'em e're they've time to grow. Thus you have learnt the Turkish Cruelty, When Elder Brothers Reign, the Younger dye. But as those Turks, when they're for Death design'd, This favour from their Cruel Brothers find, Strangled by Mutes, who fitted for the Fact, Want Tongues to speak the Cruelty they Act. Knowing the dangers of a publick shame, Our Rhimer hopes his Fate may be the same: He humbly legs, if you must cruel be, You'd make no noise when you his doom decree, But if you damn him, damn him silently.