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Your holy feasts and boures begin,

To his best memory so much a friend And each man brings a sacrifice;

Presumes to write secure, 't will not offend Now my wanton pearles I show

The living that are modest with the rest,
That to ladies' faire necks grow;

That may repine he cares not to contest :
Now my gold

This debt to Fletcher paid it is profest, and treasures that can ne'er be told,

But us the actors we will do our best Shall blesse this land by my rich How;

To send such savouring friends, as bither come And after this to crown your eyes,

To grace the scene, pleas'd and contented horns. My hidden holy bed arise.

THE EPILOGUE.
Though something well assor'd, few here repent,

Three houres of pritious time or money spent THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,

On our endeavours, yet not to relie

Too much upon our care and industry :
CALLED, THE CHANCES.

'Tis fit we should aske but a modest wav APTnesse for mirth to all this instant night How you approve our action in the plav; Thalia bath prepar'd for your delight;

If you vouchsafe to crown it with applause, Her choice and curious vyands in each part, It is your bounty and gives us cause Season'd with rarities of wit, as art.

Hereafter with a generall consent
Nor feare I to be tax'd for a vaine boast, To study, as becomes us, your content.
My promise will find credit with the most,
When they know ingenious Fletcher made it, he
Being in bimselfe a perfect comedy ;
And some sit here, I doubt not, dare averre,

FIRST SONG TO THE PLAY,
Liring, he made that house a theater

CALLED, THE LOYAL SUBJECT.
Which he pleas'd to frequent; and thus much we
Could not but play to his loud memory..

Brooms, broome, the bonny broome,
For our selves we do intreat that you would not Come buy my birchen broome,
Expect strange turnes and windings in the plot, P'th' wars we have no more roome,
Objects of state, and now and then a rhime Buy all my bonny broome.
To gaule particular persons with the time;

For a kisse take two,
Or that his towring Muse hath made her fight

If those will not do, Nearer your apprehension than your sight: For a little, little pleasure, But if that sweet expression, quick conceit,

Take all my whole treasure ;
Familiar language fashion'd to the weight

If all these will not do't,
Of such as speake it, have the power to raise Take the broome man to boot ;
Your grace to us, with trophies to his praise, Broome, broome, the bonny broome.
We may professe, presuming on his skill,
If his Chances please not you, our fortune's ill.

The wars are done and gone,

And souldiers now neglected pedlers are We have not held you long,

Come, maidens, come along, One brow in this selected company

For I can shew you handsome, handsome ware,

Powders for the head,
Assuring a dislike our paines were eas'd,

And drinkes for your bed
Could we be confident thai all rise pleas'd,
But such ambition soares too high, if we

To make ye blith and bonny:
Have satisfied the best, and they agree

As well in the night we souldiers can bght, In a faire censure, we have our reward,

And please a young wencb as any.
And in them arm'd desire no surer guard.

THE TUIRD SONG.
Will ye buy any honesty ? come away,

I sell it openly by day;
THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY, I bring no forced light, nor no candle

To cozen ye ; come buy and handle.
CALLED, THE LOYALL SUBJECT.

This will shew the great man good,
We need not, noble gentlemen, to invite The tradesman where he swears and lies,
Attention, pre-instruct you who did write

Each lady of a noble bloud,
This worthy story, being confident

The city dame to rule her «yes :
The mirth joyn'd with grave matter, and intent, Ye are rich men now, come buy, and then
To yield the hearers profit with delight,

I'le make ye richer, honest men.
Will speake the maker, and to do him right
Would ask a genius like to his; the age
Mourning his losse, and our now widdowed stage

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,
In vaine lamenting, I could adde so far,
Behind him the most moderne writers are ;

CAILED, THE LOVERS PROGRESS". That when they would commend him their best praise

A story, and a known one, long since writ, Ruins the buildings which they strive to raise, Truth must take place, and by an able wit,

THE SECOND SONG.

THE EPILOGUE.

Foulemouth'd detraction daring not deny
To give so much to Fletcher's memory :

SONGS TO THE PLAY,
If so, some may object, Why then do you
Present an old piece to us for a now?

CALLED, THE MAID IN THE MILL.
Or wherefore will your profest writer be

THE FIRST SONG. (Not tax'd of theft before) a plagary? Tớ this he answers in his just defence,

Come follow me, you country lasses, And to maintaine to all our innocence,

And you shall see such sport as passes : Thus much, though he hath travel'd the same way,

You shall dance, and I will sing, Demanding, and receiving too the pay

Pedro he shall rub the string : For a new poem, you may find it due,

Each shall have a loose-bodied gown He having neither cheated us nor you ;

Of greene; and laugh till yon lye down'
He vows, and deeply, that he did not spare

Come follow me, come follow, &c.
The utmost of his strength, and his best care
In the reviving it; and though his powers

THE SECOND SONG.
Could not, as he desir'd, in three short houres

How long shall I pine for love? Contract the subject, and much lesse expresse How long shall I sue in vaine? The changes, and the various passages

How long, like the turtle dove, Tilat will be look'd for, you may neare this day

Shall I beartily thus complaine? Some scenes that will confirme it as a play,

Shall the sailes of my love stand still ? He being ambitious that it should be known

Shall the grists of my hopes be unground ? What's good was Fletcher's, and what ill his own. Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,

Let the mill, let the mill go round.
THE EPILOGUE.
Still doubtfull and perplexed too, whether he
Hath done Fletcher right in the history;
The poet sits within, since he must know it,

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY, He with respect desires that you would shew it

CALLED, THE PASSIONATE MAD-MAX.
By some accustom'd signe; if from our action
Or his endeavours you meet satisfaction,

It's

grown in fashion of late in these daies With ours he haib his ends, we hope the best, To come and beg a suft''rance to our plaies; To make that certainty, in you doth rest.

Faith, gentlemen, our poct ever urit
Language so good, mixt with such sprightly wit;
He made the theatre so soveraigne [vcine,

With his rare scenes, he :corn'd this crouching FIRST SONG TO THE LOVERS PROGRESSE. We stabb'd himn with keenc daggers when we pray'd

Him write a preface to a play well made; Adieu, fond love, farewel, ye wanton powers,

He could not write these toyes, 'twas easier far I am free againe ;

To bring a fellon to appear at th' bar: Thou dull disease of bloud and idle houres,

So much he hated basencsse, which this day Bewitching paine.

His scenes will best convince you of in's play. Fly to the foules that sigh away their time, My nobler love to Heaven clime, And there behold beauty still young. That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy ; Our poet bid us say, for his own part, Immortall sweetnesse by faire angels sung,

He cannot lay too much forth of his art; And honour'd by eternity and joy:

l'ut feares our over-acting passions may, There lives my love, thither my hopes aspire, As not adorne, deface his labour'd play: Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.

Yet still he is res'lute for wbat is writ

Of nicer valour, and assumes the wit;
THE SECOND SONG.

But for the love sccanes which he cver meant,

Cupid in's petticoat should represent; Jis late and cold, stir up the fire,

He'l stand no shock of censure, the play's good, Set close and draw the table nigher;

He saies he knows it (if well understood) Be merry, and drink wine that's old,

But we (blind god) beg, if thou art divine, A hearty med'cine 'gainst a cold.

Thou'lt shoot thy arrowes round, this play was Your beds of wanton down the best :

thine.
Where you shall tumble to your rest :
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead and cannot do;
Call for the best, the house may ring,

SONGS TO THE PLAY,
Sack, white, and claret let tliem bring,
And drinke apace while breath you have,

CALLED, THE NICE VALOUR: OR, THE PASSIOXATE.
You'l find but cold drinke in the grave;
Plover, partridge for your dinner,

TAE FIRST SONG.
And a capen for the sinner,
You shall tind ready when you are up,

Tuou deity, swift winged love,
Anil your horse shall have his sup:

Sometimes below, sometimes above, Welcome shall hy round,

Little in shape, but great in power, And I shall smile though under ground.

Thou that makest a heart thy tower,

TIB EPILOGUE.

MAD MAX

And thy loope-holes, ladies' eyes,

As nightingales, From whence thou strik'st the fond and wise.

And things in cambric railes Did all the shafts in thy fair quiver

Sing best against a prickle. Stick fast in my ambitious liver ;

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Yet thy power would I adore,

BAS. Ho, ho, ho, ha.

(Laugh. And call upon thee to shoot more ;

PAS. Laugh. BAS. Laugh. PAS. Laugh. BA3.
Shoot more, shoot more. PAS. Wide. Bas. loud. pas. and vary.

BAS. A smile is for a simp'ring novice.
THE SECOND SONG.

PAS. One that ne're tasted caveare.

BAS. Nor knows the smack of deare anchovis. O TURN thy bow,

PAS. Ha, ha, ha, ba, ha. Thy power we feele and know,

BAS. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho. Faire Cupid turn away thy bow :

PAS. A giling waiting wench for me, They be those golden arrows

'That shewes her teeth how white they be. Bring ladies all their sorrowes,

BAS. A thing not fit for gravity, And till there be more truth in men,

For theirs are foule and hardly three. Never shoot at maids agen.

PAS. Ha, ha, ha.

BAS. Ho, ho, ho.
THE THIRD SONG.

PAS. Democritus, thou ancient fleerer,

Now I misse thy laugh, and ha since.
Hence, all you raine delights,
As short as are the nights

BAS There you nam'd the famous jeerer
Wherein you spend your folly ;

That ever jeerd in Rome or Athens. There's nought in this life sweet,

PAS. Ha, ha, ha. jf man were wise to see't,

BAS, Ho, ho, ho.

PAs. How brave lives he that keeps a foole, But only melancholly, () sweetest melancholly.

Although the rate be deeper. Welcome folded armes and fixed eyes,

BAS. But he that is his own foole, sir,

Does live a great deale cheaper.
A sight that piercing mortifies ;
A looke that's fastned to the ground,

Pas. Sure I shall burst, burst, quite breake, thou
art so witty.

[to th' citty. A tongue chain'd up without a sound ; Fountain heads, and pathlesse graves,

BAS. "Tis rare to breake at court, for that belongs Places which pale passion loves ;

PAS. Ha, ha, my spleen is almost worn to the last Moon-light walkes, when all the fowles

laughter.

[hereafter. Are warmely hous'd save bats and owles ;

Bas. O keep a corner for a friend, a jest may come A midnight bell, a parting groane, These are the sounds we feed upon : Then stretch our bories in a still gloomy valley, Nothing so dainty, sweet, as lovely melancholly.

THE PROLOGUE

TO THE TAMER TAMED.
THE FOURTH SONG.

Ladies, to you, in whose defence and right
A CURSE upon thee for a slave ;

Fletcher's brave Muse prepar'd her selfe to fight, Art thou here and heard'st me rate

A battle without bloud, 'twas well fought too, Flie not sparkles from mine eye

(The victorie's yours, though got with much adoe.) To shew mine indignation nigh;

We do present this comedy, in which Am I not all foame and fire,

A rivulet of pure wit fows, strong and rich With voice as hoarse as a town crier?

Io fancy, language, and all parts that may How my back opes and shuts together

Adde grace and ornament to a merry play, With fury as old men's with weather ;

Which this may prove: yet not to go too far Could'st thou not heare my teeth gnash hither? In promises from this our female war,

We do intreat the angry men would not
Expect the mazes of a subtle plot,

Set speeches, high expressions, and what's worse, Taou nasty scurvy mungrill toad,

In a true comedy politique discourse.
Mischiefe on thee,

The end we aime at, is to make you sport;
Light upon thee

Yet neither gaule the city, nor the court :
All the plagues

Heare and observe this comique straine, and when That can confound thee,

Y' are sick of melancholly, see't ågen. Or did ever raigne abroad;

'Tis no deare physick, since 'twill quit the cost, Petter a thousand lives it cost

Or his intentions with our paines are lost. Then have brave anger spilt or løst.

THE FIFTH SONG.

THE EPILOGUE.

THE SIXTX SONG.

The Tamer's tam'd, but so, as nor the men
PAS. On how my lungs do trickle? ha, ha, ha.
BA$. Oh how my lungs do trickle ? oh, oh, ho, họ. Can find one just cause to complain of, when

They fitly do consider in their lives
Pas. sings.
Set a sharpé jest

They should not raigne as tyrants o'er their wives;

Nor can the woman from this president
Against my breast,
Then how my lungs do trickle ;

Insult or triumph : it being aptly meant

TO THE MARTIALL MAID.

THE EPILOGUE.

To teach both sexes due equality;

of idle custome madly works apon And as they stand bound to love mutually. The drosse of many tongu'd opinion. If this etfect arising from a cause

A worthy story, howsoever writ
Well laid, and grounded, may deserve applause, For language, modest mirth, conceit, or erit,
We something inore than hope our honest ends Mercies oft times with the sweet commendation
Will keep the men and women too, our friends. Of bang't 'tis scurvey, when for approbation,

A jigge shall be clapt at, aud every rhiine
Prais'd amd applanded by a clam'rous chyme;

Let ignorance and laughter dwell together,
PROLOGUE

They are heneath the Muses petty. Hether
Came nobler judgements, and to those the straine

Of our invention is not bent in vaine. Statues and pictures challenge praise and fame, The faire maid of the Inne to you commends If they can justly boast, and prove they came

Her hopes and welcomes, and withall intends From Phydeas or Apelles: none deny,

In the entertaines to which she doth invite ye, Potts and picture painters hold a sympathy;

All things to please, and some thiogs to delight ye. Yet their workes may decay and lose their grace, Receiving blemish in their limbs or face ; When the mind's art hath this preheminence

We would faine please ye, and as faine be pleas'd, She still retaineth her first excellence. Then why should not this deare peece be esteein'd Tis but a little liking both are eas'd;

We have your money, and you have our ware, Child to the richest fancies that e're reem'd ? When not their meanest off-spring that came forth

And to our understanding good and faire ; But bore the image of their fathers' worth,

For your own wisdome's sake be not so mad (bad; Beaumont's and Fletcher's, whose desert out-weighs To acknowledge ye have bought things deare and The brst applause, and their least sprig of bayes

Let not a brack i'th' stuffe, or here and there

The fading glosse, a generall losse appeare ,
Is worthy Phæbus; and who comes to gather
Thrir fruits of wit, be shall not rob the treasure ;

We know ye take up worse commodities,
Nor can you ever surfeit of the plenty,

And dearer pay, yet thinke your bargains wise:

We kuow in meat and wine, ye fing away Nor can you call them rare, though they be dainty:

More time and wealth, which is but dearer pay i
The more you take, the more you do them right,
And we will thanke you for your owu delight.

And with the reckoning all the pleasure lost,
We bid you not unto repenting cost :
The price is easie, and so light the play,

That ye inay new digest it ev'ry day.
Our author feares there are some rebels' hearts,

Then noble friends, as ye would choose a mistris, Whose dulnesse doth oppose Inve's piercing darts: Only to please the eye a while and kisse, Such will be apt to say there wanted wit,

Till a good wife be got: so let this play
The language low, very few scenes are writ

Hold ye a while, untill a better may.
Witla spirit and life; such oid things as these
He cares not for, nor never neapes to please ;
For if your selves a inistris, or love's friends,

FIRST SONG TO THE TRAGEDY OF Are lik'd with this smooth play, he hath his ends.

VALENTINIAN.

Now the lusty spring is secne,
A SONG 70 THE FLAY,

Golden, yellow, gaudy bleve,

Dajntily invite the view.
CALLED, WIT AT SEVERAL WEAPONK.

Every where, on every greene,
Farne would I wake you, sweet, but feare

Roses blusting as they blow, I should invite you to worse cheare;

And inticing men to pull,

Lillies whiter than the snow,
In your dreames you cannot fare
Meaner than music, no compare ;

Woodlines of sweet honey full.
None of your slumbers are compild

All love's emblems, and all cry, Under the pleasure makes a child :

Ladies, if not pluck'd we dye. Your day delights, so well compact,

Yet the lusty spring hath stayd, That wbat you thinke, turnes all to act;

Blushing red and purest white, ['de wish my life no better play,

Daintily to love invite
Your dreame by night, your thought by day. Every woman, every maid,
Wake gently, wake,

Cherries kissing as they grow,
Part softly from your dreames;

And inviting men to taste,
The morning flies,

Apples even ripe below,
To your faire eyes,

Winding gently to the waste.
To take her speciall beames.

All love's emblems, and all cry,
Ladies, if not pluckt, we dye.

THE EPILOGUE

THE PROLOGUE

TRY SECOND SONG.

TO THE PAIRE MAID OF THE INNL. Pences have their fates, not as in their true sence They're understood, but as the influence

Heare, ye ladies that despise
What the mighty Love bath done;
Peare examples, and be wise,
Faire Calisto was a pun.

CHORUS.

Leda sailing on the strea:ne,

Another bait may mend us: if you grow To deceive the hopes of man,

A little gald or wearie, cry but hoa, Lore accounting but a dreane,

And wee'l stay for ye; when our journey ends
Duated on a silver swan;

Every man's pot I hope, and all part friends.
Danae in a brazen torer,
Where no love was, lov'd a flower.
Heare ye ladies that are cov,

THE HONEST MAV'S FORTUNE.
What the mighty Love can do,
Feare the fiercenesse of the bry,

You that can look through heaven, and tell the The chaste Moo je he makes to wooe.

stars, Vesta kindling holy fires

Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars ; Circled round about with spies,

Find out new lights, and give them where you Never dreaming loose desires,

piease, Doting at the altar dies.

To these men honours, pleasures, to those ease; Ilion in a short tower bigber,

You that are God's surveyers, and can show He can ouce more build, and once more fire. How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow;

Know all the charges of the dreadfull thunder,

And when it will shoot over, or fall under:
THE THIRD SONG.

Tell me by all your art, I conjure ye,
Honour that is ever living,

Yes, and by truth, what shall become of me; Honour that is ever giving,

Find out my star, if each one, as you say, Honour that sees all, and knows

Hare his peculiar angell, and his way ; Both the ebbs of man and fowes.

Observe my face, next fall into your dreames, Honour that rewards the best,

Sweep cleane your houses, and new line your Sends thee thy rich labours' rest ;

sceames, Thou hast studied still to please her,

Then say your worst : or have I none at all ?
Therefore now she cals thee Cæsar.

Or is it burnt out lately, or diel fall ?
Or am I poore, not able, no full flame,

My star, like me, unworthy of a name?
Haile, haile, Cæsar, haile and stand, Is it your art can only worke on those
And thy name out-live the land ;

That deale with dangers, dignities and cloaths ?
Noble fathers, to his brows

With love, or new opinions ? you all lye,
Biod this wreath with thousand vows. A fish-wife hath a fate, and so have I,

But far above your finding, he that gives

Out of his providence to all that lives,
THE FOURTH SONG,

And no man knows his treasure, no not you :
God Lisus ever young,

He that made Egypt blind, from whence you grew Ever renown'd, ever sung;

Scabby and louisie, that the world might see Stain'd with blood of lusty grapes,

Your calcnlations are as blind as ye; In a thonsand lusty shapes;

He that made all the stars you daily read, Dance upon the mazer's brim,

And from thence Oltch a knowledge how to feed, la the crimson liquor swim ;

Hath hid this froin yo'l, your conjectores all From thy plentious hand divine,

Are drunken things, not bow, but when they fall: Let a river run with wine;

Man is his own star, and the soule that can
God of youth, let this day here

Rend: r an honest and a perfect man.
Enter neither care nor feare.

Command all light, all influence, all fate,
Nothing to him fais eariy, or too late ;
Our acts our angels are, or good, or ill,
Our fatall shadows that walke by us still;

And when the stars are labouring, we believe
THE PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY,

It is not that they governe, but they grieve
CALI ED, LOVE'S PILGRIMAGE.

For stabborne ignorance; all things that are

Marte for our generall uses are at war, To this place, gentlemen, full many a day

Even we among our selves, and from the strife We have bid you welcome; and to many a play: Your first unlike opinions got a life. And those whose angry soules were not displeas'd O man, thou image of thy Maker's good, With law, or lending money, we have pleas'd, What canst thou feare when breath'd into thy blood And make no doubt to do againe; this night His spirit is that built thee? what dull sence No mighty matter, nor no light,

Makes thee suspect, in need, that providence? We must intreat you looke for : a good tale, Who made the inorning, and who plac'd the light Told in two houres, we will not faile

Guide to thy labours ? who call d up the night,
If we be perfect to rehearse ye : new

And bid her fall upon thee like sweet show'rs
I am sure it is, and handsome; but how true In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers ?
Let them dispute that writ it. Ten to one Who gave thee knowledge, who so trusted theo
We please the women, and I would know what man To let thee grow so neare himselfe, the tree?.
Folloes not their example. If ye meane

Must he then be distrusted ? shall his frame
To know the play well, travell with the scene, Discourse with him, why thus, and thus I am
For it lies upon the road; if we chance tire, He made the angels thine, thy fellows all,
As ye are good men leave us not i'th' miie,

Nay eveli thy servants when devotions call!

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