html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Ladies! take't as a secret in your Eare,
In stead of homage, and kind welcome here,
I heartily could wish, you all were gone;
For if you stay, good faith, wee are undone.
Alas! you now expect, the usuall wayes
Of our addresse, which is, your Sexes praise:
But wee to night, unluckily must speake,
Such things, will make your Lovers Heart-strings breake;
Bely your Virtues, and your beauties staine,
With words, contriv'd long since, in your disdaine.
'Tis strange you stirre not yet; not all this while
Lift up your Fannes, to hide a scornefull smile:
Whisper, nor jog your Lords to steale away;
So leave us t'act, unto our selves, our Play:
Then sure, there may be hope, you can subdue,
Your patience to endure, an Act, or two:
Nay more, when you are told, our Poets rage
Pursues but one example, which that age
Wherein he liv'd produc'd; and wee rely
Not on the truth, but the varietie.
His Muse beleev'd not, what she then did write;
Her Wings, were wom to make a nobler flight;
Soar'd high, and to the Stars, your Sex did raise;
For which, full Twenty yeares, he wore the Bayes.
'Twas hee reduc'd Evadne from her scorne,
And taught the sad Aspasia how to mourne;
Gave Arethusa's love, a glad releefe;
And made Panthea elegant in griefe.
If these great Trophies of his noble Muse,
Cannot one humor 'gainst your Sex excuse
Which wee present to night; you'l finde a way
How to make good, the Libell in our Play:
So you are cruell to your selves; whilst he
(Safe in the fame of his integritie)
Will be a Prophet, not a Poet thought;
And this fine Web last long, though loosely wrought.