ACTED BEFORE THE DUKE OF YORK, UPON HIS BIRTH-DAY .

Sir , while so many nations strive to pay
The tribute of their glories to this day,
That gave them earnest of so great a sum
Of glory (from your future acts) to come,
And which you have discharg'd at such a rate,
That all succeeding times must celebrate;
We, that subsist by your bright influence,
And have no life but what we own from thence,
Come humbly to present you, our own way,
With all we have, (beside our hearts) a play.
But as devoutest men can pay no more
To deities than what they gave before,
We bring you only what your great commands
Did rescue for us from ingrossing hands,
That would have taken out administration
Of all departed poets' goods i' the' nation;
Or, like to lords of manors, seiz'd all plays
That come within their reach, as wefts and strays,
And claim'd a forfeiture of all past wit,
But that your justice put a stop to it.
'Twas well for us, who else must have been glad
To' admit of all who now write new and bad;
For still the wickeder some authors write,
Others to write worse are encourag'd by't;
And though those fierce inquisitors of wit,
The critics, spare no flesh that ever writ;
But just as tooth-draw'rs find, among the rout,
Their own teeth work, in pulling others out,
So they, decrying all of all that write,
Think to erect a trade of judging by't.
Small poetry, like other heresies,
By being persecuted multiplies;
But here they're like to fail of all pretence;
For he that writ this play is dead long since,
And not within their power: for bears are said
To spare those that lie still and seem but dead.