To this fair company I am to say, You're welcome all to a well-meaning play; For such our author made it, with intent To defame none. His muse is innocent: A virgin yet, that has not found the ways Out of foul crimes to raise herself a praise; And therefore she desires you would excuse All bitter strains, that suit a satire muse: And that which so much takes the vulgar ear-- Looseness of speech, which they for jests do hear. She hopes none such are here, therefore she dares Venture this story, purg'd from lighter airs: A piece entire, without or patch or maim, Round in itself, and everywhere the same. And if there be not in't what they call wit, There might have been, had it been thought so fit. A shepherd's muse gently of love does sing, And with it mingles no impurer thing. Such she presents unto your ears and eyes, And yet your Christian freedom not denies Of liking or disliking what you will: You may say this is well, or that is ill, Without dispute; for why should you that pay For what you have, be taught what you should say? Or made to judge by any square or rule, As if you came not to a stage, but school? No, he that made it says, if you will eat, He will not force your stomachs: there's your meat; Which if you like, 'tis well; if not, all's one; There must be difference in opinion. Besides, he's sure, whatever he could wish, Your taste, and not his art, must praise the dish. The Shepherds' Holiday. ACTUS I., SCENA I. THYRSIS, MONTANUS. THYR. Here in this grove I left her, here amongst These poplars, laurels, and these sycamores, Guilty of her sad loss: and yet behold They do appear as fresh and full of verdure, As when my love, clothed in her clearest looks, Did give them grace and lustre. Why do we, Poor silly men, bred up in cares and fear, The nurse of our religion, stoop to Nature, That only knows to form, not to preserve What she has made; since, careless of her work, She leaves to giddy Fortune the whole power Of ruling us? These senseless trees stand still, And flourish too, and in their pride upbraid My loss to me; but my dear Sylvia being Nature's best piece, made to excuse the rest Of all her vulgar forms, ah me! was left To desolation, till some horrid satyr, Bred in these woods, and furious in his lusts, Made her his prey; and now has carried her Into his dark retirings, or some cave, Where her poor Thyrsis never more shall see her. But I will be reveng'd: this wood, that now Is so bedeck'd with leaves and fresh array, I'll level with the ground, until it be As desolate as I. MON. Alas, poor shepherd! [_Aside._