Plantagenets tragicall story: or, The death of King Edward the Fourth: with the unnaturall voyage of Richard the Third, through the Red Sea of his nephews innocent bloud, to his usurped crowne. Metaphrased by T.W. Gent.

TO The Reader of the ensuing Poeme, composed by his ingenious friend Captaine T. W.

REader; This Author tells thee hee hath found A Gentile sport that's neither Hawk nor hound, Nor Gleeke nor Maw. Here thou maist quickly see A better Record of Gentility, Then a long Rowle, where a short five-pound fee Hath scratcht one out a long-tail'd Pedegree From Adam downward: Th' onely, Record stood Not wash'd away with old Deucalion's flood. He knows no game but study-tables: there He spends his time: and needs no gamster feare Who walkes in scarlet. This Historian Rhyme Is but the offall of his Second time; His very Recreation: What would'st say, Might'st thou the works see of his serious day? The world is not at leisure now to read The Choice employments of his studious head.

This is no wanton Pastorall to relate How much the Poets minds degenerate; For some such Antick baubles thou may'st find Whose Poems but betray their frothy mind, And onely serve to let the Reader know How much the foolish Ape is sunk below A man: that modesty cannot controule Him; but he must spue out his wanton soule. Poor low-borne wormes! that make it their designe Of life to learne to dresse their bodies fine, And throw their feet into such figures, as May tune the differing fashions of that face That's made the Devils jaylor for to keep Their souls close pris'ners in a sinfull sleep To th' great Assize. These female Apes will write (Sometimes) the dreames of their lascivious night, more time I'th' morning till their wantons dresse, Nor so much can they spare to make their Rime (Except by chance one night they get to bed Before the Wine hath seis'd their sottish head.) But being written and read ore and ore Before the Antick whom it doth adore, Abroad it comes, with the French fashion'd face Of the Composer: (And a truer glasse For the whole sensuall beast there could not bee To shew his putrid minds deformity.)

A lawrell must his pictured carcass twine, 'Tis but the Bush, to shew the house of wine, In which he wholly dwells. 'Tis cut in Brasse, To shew the metall of the Poets face, That studies sin, and blusheth not to tell The world, how deep his soul's engag'd to hell. This must be dedicated unto one To whom he is debtor for a Virgin Zone. Reader! this Author's one that doth inherit (Without a forfeit yet) that noble spirit That is mans Birthright; One that in the least Is not inclining yet unto a Beast. One thing more let me tell thee (friend!) that hee Nere us'd to vomit out his poetry, Hee's no such heretick as holds none can Bee Poet till he leave to bee a man. This Madrigall's no catch. Here's not a line But is more essence of the Braine then wine. Read all, I'th' whole Context thou shalt not meet A verse but the Author could command his feet, When it was made, as well as thou doest now. By this time thou'rt inquisitive to know Who is this noble Author. Hee is one That is a man in his Perfection. Man in his All; Hee's one that needs not be Beholden to a piece of poetry.

To Beg's Acquaintance with the world, his fame Cannot bee heightned by his Printed name, A souldier and a Scholler. One that can Shew thee what 'tis to be a Gentleman.

I. C. Art. Mag.