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Morose. — Come, have me to my chamber; but first shut the door. [Truewit winds the horn without.] Oh, shut the door, shut the door! Is he come again?

PROLOGUE FROM “EVERY MAN IN His HUMOR."

Though need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not bettered much;
Yet ours, for want, hath not so loved the stage
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate
As, for it, he himself must justly hate.
To make a child, now swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up in one beard and weed
Past threescore years; or with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot-and-half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars,
And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars.
He rather prays, you will be pleased to see
One such to-day, as other plays should be:
Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas;
Nor creaking throne comes down, the boys to please;
Nor nimble squib is seen, to make afeard
The gentlewomen; nor rolled bullet heard
To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum
Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come:
But deeds and language such as men do use;
And persons such as comedy would choose,
When she would show an image of the times,
And sport with human follies, not with crimes.

SONG TO CELIA.
DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change from thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADOWS.
Follow a shadow, it still flies you,

Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;

Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men ?
At morn and even shades are longest;

At noon they are or short or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,

But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men ?

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In grace and feature,
As heaven and nature seemed to strive

Which owned the creature.
Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel;
And did act, what now we moan,

Old men so duly,
As sooth the Parcæ thought him one,

He played so truly.
So, by error, to his fate

They all consented ;
But viewing him since, alas, too late!

They have repented;
And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him:
But being so much too good for earth,

Heaven vows to keep him.

ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.
HERE lies, to each her parents ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.
At six months' end she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven's Queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin train:
Where while that, severed, doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshy birth :
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

FROM “CYNTHIA'S REVELS."
Enter HESPERUS, CYNTHIA, ARETE, TIMÈ, PHRONESIS, and THAUMA.

Music accompanied. HESPERUS sings
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear, when day did close :
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

THE NOBLE NATURE.
It is not growing like a tree

In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,

It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM

SHAKSPEARE.
(Printed in the first folio edition of Shakspeare, 1623.)
To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis time, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds the best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.
But thou art proof against them and, indeed,
Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need.

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