_I know too well, that, no more than the man That travels through the burning Desarts, can When he is beaten with the raging Sun, Half smothered in the dust, have power to run From a cool River, which himself doth find, E're he be slacked; no more can he whose mind Joyes in the Muses, hold from that delight, When nature, and his full thoughts bid him write: Yet wish I those whom I for friends have known, To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own. Why should the man, whose wit ne'r had a stain, Upon the publick Stage present his [vein,] And make a thousand men in judgment sit, To call in question his undoubted wit, Scarce two of which can understand the laws Which they should judge by, nor the parties cause? Among the rout there is not one that hath In his own censure an explicite faith; One company knowing they judgement lack, Ground their belief on the next man in black: Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute, Some like as he does in the fairest sute, He as his Mistress doth, and she by chance: Nor want there those, who as the Boy doth dance Between the Acts, will censure the whole Play; Some if the Wax-lights be not new that day; But multitudes there are whose judgement goes Headlong according to the Actors cloathes. For this, these publick things and I, agree So ill, that but to do a right for thee, I had not been perswaded to have hurl'd These few, ill spoken lines, into the world, Both to be read, and censur'd of, by those, Whose very reading makes Verse senseless Prose: Such as must spend above an hour, to spell A Challenge on a Past, to know it well: But since it was thy hap to throw away Much wit, for which the people did not pay, Because they saw it not, I not dislike This second publication, which may strike Their consciences, to see the thing they scorn'd, To be with so much wit and Art adorned. Besides one vantage more in this I see, Tour censurers now must have the qualitie Of reading, which I am afraid is more Than half your shrewdest Judges had before._ Fr. Beaumont. _To the worthy Author_ M'r. Jo. FLETCHER. _The wise, and many headed_ Bench, _that sits Upon the Life, and Death of_ Playes, _and_ Wits, (_Composed of_ Gamester, Captain, Knight, Knight's man, Lady, _or_ Pusill, _that wears mask or fan_, Velvet, _or_ Taffata _cap, rank'd in the dark With the shops_ Foreman, _or some such_ brave spark, _That may judge for his_ six-pence_) had, before They saw it half, damn'd thy whole Play, and more, Their motives were, since it had not to doe With vices, which they look'd for, and came to. I, that am glad, thy Innocence was thy Guilt, And wish that all the_ Muses _blood were spilt In such a_ Martyrdome, _to vex their eyes, Do crown thy murdred_ Poeme: _which shall rise A glorified work to Time, when Fire, Or mothes shall eat, what all these Fools admire._ BEN. JONSON.