I may not wonder, for the world does know, What poets can, and ofttimes reach unto. They oft work miracles: no marvel, then, Thou mak'st thy tailor here a nobleman: Would all the trade were honest too; but he Hath learn'd the utmost of the mystery, Filching with cunning industry the heart Of such a beauty, which did prove the smart Of many worthy lovers, and doth gain That prize which others labour'd for in vain. Thou mak'st him valiant too, and such a spirit, As every noble mind approves his merit. But what renown th' hast given his worth, 'tis fit The world should render to thy hopeful wit, And with a welcome plaudit entertain This lovely issue of thy teeming brain. That their kind usage to this birth of thine May win so much upon thee, for each line Thou hast bequeath'd the world, thou'lt give her ten, And raise more high the glory of thy pen. Accomplish these our wishes, and then see How all that love the arts will honour thee. C. G.[6] TO MY FRIEND MASTER RAWLINS, UPON THIS PLAY, HIS WORK. Friend, in the fair completeness of your play Y' have courted truth; in these few lines to say Something concerning it, that all may know I pay no more of praise than what I owe. 'Tis good, and merit much more fair appears Appareled in plain praise, than when it wears A complimental gloss. Tailors may boast Th' have gain'd by your young pen what they long lost By the old proverb, which says, _Three to a man_: But to your vindicating muse, that can Make one a man, and a man noble, they Must wreaths of bays as their due praises pay. ROBERT DAVENPORT.[7] TO THE AUTHOR, ON HIS "REBELLION." Thy play I ne'er saw: what shall I say then? I in my vote must do as other men, And praise those things to all, which common fame Does boast of such a hopeful growing flame Which, in despite of flattery, shall shine, Till envy at thy glory do repine: And on Parnassus' cliffy top shall stand, Directing wand'ring wits to wish'd-for land; Like a beacon o' th' Muses' hill remain, That still doth burn, no lesser light retain; To show that other wits, compar'd with thee, Is but Rebellion i' th' high'st degree. For from thy labours (thus much I do scan) A tailor is ennobled to a man. R. W.[8] TO HIS DEAR FRIEND, MR. THOMAS RAWLINS.