READER, if courteous, I have not so little faith as to feare thy censure; since thou knowest youth hath many faults, whereon I depend: although my ignorance of the stage is also a sufficient excuse: if I have committed any, let thy candor judge mildly of them; and thinke not those voluntary favours of my friends (by whose compulsive perswasions I have published this) a commendations of my seeking, or through a desire in me to encrease the volume, but rather a care, that you (since that I have bin over entreated to present it to you) might find therein something worth your time. Take no notice of my name, for a second worke of this nature shall hardly beare it. I have no desire to bee knowne by a thread-bare cloake, having a calling that will maintaine it woolly. Farewell.
TO HIS LOVING FRIEND THE AUTHOR, UPON HIS' TRAGEDY
"THE REBELLION."
To praise thee, friend, and shew the reason why, From the vicious villaine, earths fatall ill,
Issues from honest love; not flattery.
My will is not to flatter, nor for spight
To praise, or dispraise; but to doe thee right.
Proud daring rebells, in their impious way
Of Machivillian darkenesse; this thy play
Exactly shewes; speakes thee truths satyrist,
Rebellions foe, times honest artist.
Thy continu'd scenes, parts, plots, and language
Distinguish (worthily) the vertuous man
Intending mischeivous traitor Machivill.
Him and his trech'rous complices, that strove
(Like the gigantick rebells warre 'gainst Jove)
To disenthrone Spains king, (the Heavens an-
noynted,)
By sterne death all were justly disappointed,
Plots meet with counter-plots, revenge, and
Rebells ruine, makes thy tragedy good.
NATH. RICHARDS.
TO HIS WORTHY ESTEEMED MR THOMAS RAWLINS ON HIS" REBELLION."
I MAY not wonder, for the world does know,
What poets can, and oft times reach unto.
They oft worke myracles: no marvaile than
Thou mak'st thy tailer here a nobleman :
Would all the trade were honest too; but he
Hath learn't the utmost of the mystery,
Filching with cunning industery, the heart
Of such a beauty, which did prove the smart
Of many worthy lovers, and doth gaine
That prize which others labour'd for in vaine.
Thou mak'st him valiant too, and such a spirit,
As every noble mind approves his merit.
But what renowne th' 'ast given his worth, 'tis fit
The world should render to thy hopefull wit,
And with a welcome plaudit entertaine
This lovely issue of thy teeming braine.
That their kinde usage to this birth of thine,
May winne so much upon thee for each line
Thou hast bequeath'd the world thou 'It give her
tenne,
And raise more high the glory of thy penne:
Accomplish these our wishes, and then see,
How all that love the arts will honour thee.
C. G.
TO MY FRIEND MR RAWLINS, UPON THIS PLAY, HIS WORKE.
To see a springot of thy tender age,
With such a lofty straine to word a stage;
To see a tragedy from thee in print,
With such a world of fine meanders in 't,
Pusles my wondring soule: for there appeares
Such disproportion 'twixt thy lines and yeares,
That when I read thy lines, methinkes I see
The sweet tongu'd Ovid fall upon his knee,
With (parce precor) every line, and word,
Runnes in sweet numbers of its owne accord:
But I am wonder-strook, that all this while
Thy unfeather'd quill should write a tragicke stile.
TO HIS FRIEND, MR THOMAS RAWLINS, ON HIS PLAY CALLED "THE REBELLION."
I WILL not praise thee, friend, nor is it fit, Least I be said to flatter what y' have writ: For some will say, I writ to applaud thee, That when I print thou maist doe so for me.
Faith they're deceiv'd, thou justly claim'st thy
Vertue rewards her selfe; thy work's thy praise. T. JOURDAN.
TO THE AUTHOR, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS.
KIND friend excuse me, that doe thus intrude,
Thronging thy volume with my lines so rude.
Applause is needlesse here, yet this I owe
As due to th' Muses: thine ne're su'd (I know)
For hands, nor voyce, nor pen, nor other praise
Whatsoe're by mortalls us'd, thereby to raise
An authors name eternally to blisse;
Wer't rightly scann'd (alas!) what folly 'tis :
As if a poets single worke alone,
Wants power to lift him to the spangled throne Of highest Jove or needes their luke-warme fires,
To cut his way or pierce the circled spheares.
Foolish presumption! whosoe're thou art,
Thus fondly deem'st of poets princely art,
Here needs no paultry petty pioners skill
To fortifie; nay, thy inelefluous quill
Strikes Momus with amaze, and silence deepe,
And doom'd poore Zoilus to the Lethean sleepe.
Then ben't dismay'd, I know thy booke will live,
And deathlesse trophies to thy name shall give.
Who doubts, where Venus and Minerva meete
In every line, how pleasantly they greete?
Strewing thy paths with roses, red and white,
To decke thy silver-streames of fluent wit;
And entertaine the graces of thy minde:
O may thy early head be sweet shelter finde,
Vnder the umbraes of those verdant bayes,
Ordain'd for sacred poesies sweet layes.
Such are thy lines, in such a curious dresse,
Compos'd so quaintly; that if I may guesse,
None save thine owne should dare t'approach
the presse,
I. GOUGH,
A SOWRE and austere kind of men there be,
That would out-law the lawes of poesie;
And from a common-wealths well govern'd lists,
Some grave and too much severe Platonists,
Would exclude poets; and have emnity
With the soules freedome, ingenuity.
These are so much for wisedome, they forget
That Heaven allow'th the use of modest wit.
These thinke the author of a jest alone,
Is the man that deserves damnation :
Holding mirth vitious, and to laugh a sin:
Yet we must give these Cynicks leave to grin.
What will they thinke, when they shall see thee in
The plaines of faire Elizium? sit among
A crowned troope of poets? and a throng
Of ancient bardes, which soule-delighting quire
Sings daily anthemnes to Apolloes lyre.
Amongst which thou shalt sit; and crowned
thus,
Shalt laugh at Cato and Democritus.
Thus shall thy bayes be superscrib'd: my pen
Did not alone make playes, but also men.
E. B.
TO HIS FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR,
BLESSE me, you sacred sister. What a throng
Of choice encomions 's prest? such as was sung
When the sweet singer Stesichorus liv'd;
Vpon whose lips the nightingale surviv'd.
What makes my sickly fancy hither hye
(Vnlesse it be for shelter?) when the eye
Of each peculiar artist makes a quest
After my slender judgement? then a jest
Dissolves my thoughts to nothing, and my paines
Has its reward in adding to my staines.
But as the river of Athamas can fire
The sullen wood, and make its flames aspire,
So the infused comfort I receive
By th' tye of friendship, prompts me to relieve
My fainting spirits; and with a full saile
Rush 'mongst your Argoseys dispite of haile,
Or stormes of critticks, friend, to thee I come,
I know th' ast harbour, I defie much roome:
Besides, lle pay thee for 't in gratefull verse,
Since that thou art witts abstract, Ile rehearse:
Nothing shall wooll your eares with a long | Or pine like greennesse of thy extant wit:
Of a sententious folly; for to raise
Sad pyramids of flattery, that may be
Condemn'd for the sincere prolixity.
Let Envy turne her mantle, and expose
Her rotten intralls to infect the rose,
Yet shall thy Homers shield demolish it.
Vpon thy quill as on an eagles wing, [pering:
Thou shalt be led through th' ayre's sweet whis
And with thy pen thou shalt ingrave thy name,
(Better then pencill,) in the list of fame.
I. TATHAM.
ON MASTER RAWLINS, AND HIS TAYLER, IN « THE REBELLION."
In what a strange delemma stood my mind,
When first I saw the tayler, and did finde
It so well fraught with wit! but when I knew
The noble tayler to proceed from you;
I stood amaz'd, as one with thunder strook,
And knew not which to read; you, or your booke.
I wonder how you could, being of our race,
So eagle-like looke Phoebus in the face.
I wonder how you could, being so yong,
And teeming yet, encounter with so strong
And firme a story; 'twould indeed have prov'd
A subject for the wisest, that had lov'd
To sucke at Aganippe. But goe on,
My best of friends; and as you have begun
With that is good, so let your after times
Transcendent be. Apollo he still shines
On the best wits; and if a Momus chance
On this thy volume scornfully to glance,
Melpomene will defend, and you shall see,
That vertue will at length make envy flee.
I. KNIGHT.
TO HIS INGENIOUS FRIEND, MR RAWLINS, THE AUTHOR OF "THE REBELLION."
WHAT need. I strive to prayse thy worthy frame,
Or raise a trophy to thy lasting name?
Were my bad wit with eloquence refin'd,
When I have said my most, the most 's behind.
But that I might be knowne for one of them,
Which do admire thy wit, and love thy pen.
I could not better shew forth my good will,
Then to salute you with my virgin quill,
| And bring you something to adorne your head
Among a throng of friends, who oft have read
Your learned poems, and doe honour thee,
And thy bright genius. How like a curious tree
Is thy sweet fancy, bearing fruit so rare
The learned still will covet: Momus no share
Shall have of it; but end his wretched dayes
In grifee, 'cause now now be seeth th' art crown'd
with bayes.
JO. MERIELL
PETRUCHIO, Governour of FILFord.
SEBASTIANO, PETRUCHIO's Sonne, in the disguise
of a Tayler cald GIOVANNO.
Old Tayler.
VIRMINE, his Man.
Three Taylers more.
Captaine of the Bandetty.
Two Ruffians and a Brave.
RAYMOND, (a Moore,) Generall of the French PHILIPPA, the Moore's Wife.
AURISTELLA, MACHVILE'S Wife. EVADNE, ANTONIO's Sister. AURELIA, SEBASTIANO's Sister. Nurse, Attendant on EVADNE,
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