f 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.

To see a springot of thy tender age
With such a lofty strain to word a stage;
To see a tragedy from thee in print,
With such a world of fine meanders in't,
Puzzles my wond'ring soul; for there appears
Such disproportion 'twixt thy lines and years,
That when I read thy lines, methinks I see
The sweet-tongued Ovid fall upon his knee,
With (_parce precor_) every line and word
Runs in sweet numbers of its own accord:
But I am wonder-struck that all this while
Thy unfeather'd quill should write a tragic style.
This above all my admiration draws,
That one so young should know dramatic laws.
'Tis rare, and therefore is not for the span
Or greasy thumbs of every common man.
The damask rose, that sprouts before the spring,
Is fit for none to smell at but a king.
Go on, sweet friend; I hope in time to see
Thy temples rounded with the Daphnean tree.
And if men ask who nurs'd thee, I'll say thus,
It was the ambrosian spring of Pegasus.

ROBERT CHAMBERLAIN.[9]

TO HIS FRIEND, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS,

ON HIS PLAY CALLED "THE REBELLION."

I will not praise thee, friend, nor is it fit,
Lest I be said to flatter what y' have writ:
For some will say I writ to applaud thee,
That when I print, thou may'st do so for me.
Faith, they're deceiv'd, tho