through both sides prease
Of Pageant seers: or as schollers please
That are no Poets; more then Poets learnd;
Since their art solely, is by soules discerned;
The others fals [fall, D, E, F] within the common sence
And sheds (like common light) her influence:
So, were your play no Poeme, but a thing
That every Cobler to his patch might sing:
A rout of nifles (like the multitude)
With no one limme [limbe, E, F] of any art indude:
Like would to like, and praise you: but because,
Your poeme onely hath by us applause,
Renews the golden world; and holds through all
The holy lawes of homely pastorall;
Where flowers, and founts, and Nimphs, & semi-Gods,
And all the Graces finde their old abods:
Where forrests flourish but in endlesse verse;
And meddowes, nothing fit for purchasers:
This Iron age that eates it selfe, will never
Bite at your golden world; that others, ever
Lov'd as it selfe: then like your Booke do you
Live in ould peace: and that for praise allow.

G. Chapman

These lines are in A, C, D, E and F. The text is that of A.

_To that noble and true lover of learning_,
Sir Walter Aston Knight
_of the Balls_.

Sir I must aske your patience, and be trew.
This play was never liked, unlesse by few
That brought their judgements with um, for of late
First the infection, then the common prate
Of common people, have such customes got
Either to silence plaies, or like them not.
Under the last of which this interlude,
Had falne for ever prest downe by the rude
That like a torrent which the moist south feedes,
Drowne's both before him the ripe corne and weedes.
Had not the saving sence of better men
Redeem'd it from corruption: (deere Sir then)
Among the better soules, be you the best
In whome, as in a Center I take rest,
And propper being: from whose equall eye
And judgement, nothing growes but puritie:
(Nor do I flatter) for by all those dead,
Great in the muses, by _Apolloes_ head,
He that ads any thing to you; tis done
Like his that lights a candle to the sunne:
Then be as you were ever, your selfe still
Moved by your judement, not by love, or will
And when I sing againe as who can tell
My next devotion to that holy well,
Your goodnesse to the muses shall be all,
Able to make a worke Heroyicall.

_Given to your service_
John Fletcher.

These lines are in A and B.

To the inheritour of all worthines,
_Sir William Scipwith.
Ode._

If from servile hope or love,
I may