draw. 
  Fletcher reach’d that which on his heights did grow,
  While Jonson crept, and gather’d all below. 10
  This did his love, and this his mirth digest: 
  One imitates him most, the other best. 
  If they have since outwrit all other men,
  ’Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare’s pen. 
  The storm, which vanish’d on the neighbouring shore,
  Was taught by Shakspeare’s Tempest first to roar. 
  That innocence and beauty, which did smile
  In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. 
  But Shakspeare’s magic could not copied be;
  Within that circle none durst walk but he. 20
  I must confess ’twas bold, nor would you now
  That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
  Which works by magic supernatural things: 
  But Shakspeare’s power is sacred as a king’s. 
  Those legends from old priesthood were received,
  And he then writ, as people then believed. 
  But if for Shakspeare we your grace implore,
  We for our theatre shall want it more: 
  Who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ
  One of our women to present a boy; 30
  And that’s a transformation, you will say,
  Exceeding all the magic in the play. 
  Let none expect in the last act to find,
  Her sex transform’d from man to womankind. 
  Whate’er she was before the play began,
  All you shall see of her is perfect man. 
  Or, if your fancy will be further led
  To find her woman—­it must be a-bed.

* * * * *

VII.

PROLOGUE TO TYRANNIC LOVE.

  Self-love, which, never rightly understood,
  Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
  And malice in all critics reigns so high,
  That for small errors, they whole plays decry;
  So that to see this fondness, and that spite,
  You’d think that none but madmen judge or write,
  Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
  To impose upon you what he writes for wit;
  So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free,
  You equal judges of the whole will be:  10
  They judge but half, who only faults will see. 
  Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare,
  They spoil their business with an over care;
  And he, who servilely creeps after sense,
  Is safe, but ne’er will reach an excellence. 
  Hence ’tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
  Allow’d his fancy the full scope and swing. 
  But when a tyrant for his theme he had,
  He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad: 
  And though he stumbles in a full career, 20
  Yet rashness is a better fault than fear. 
  He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,
  To choose the ground might be to lose the race. 
  They, then, who of each trip the advantage take,
  Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.