I Crouded 'mongst the first, to see the Stage(Inspir'd by thee) strike wonder in our Age,By thy bright fancie dazled: Where each SceaneWrought like a charme, and forc't the Audience leaneTo th' passion of thy Pen: Thence Ladies went(Whose absence Lovers sigh'd for) to repentTheir unkind scorne; And Courtiers, who by artMade love before, with a converted hart,To wed those Virgins, whom they woo'd t'abuse;Both renderd Hymen's pros'lits by thy Muse.But others who were proofe 'gainst Love, did sitTo learne the subtle Dictats of thy Wit;And as each profited, tooke his degree,Master, or Batchelor, in Comedie.Who on the Stage, though since they venter'd not,Yet on some Lord, or Lady, had their plotOf gaine, or favour: Ev'ry nimble jestThey spake of thine, b'ing th' entrance to a Feast,Or neerer whisper: Most thought fit to beSo farre concluded Wits, as they knew thee.But here the Stage thy limit was. Kings mayFind proud ambition humbled at the sea,Which bounds dominion: But the nobler flightOf Poesie, hath a supremer rightTo Empire, and extends her large commandWhere ere th'invading Sea assaults the land.Ev'n Madagascar (which so oft hath beenLike a proud Virgin tempted, yet still seenTh'Enemy Court the Wind for flight) doth lieA trophie now of thy Wits Victorie:Nor yet disdaines destruction to her state,Encompast with thy Laurell in her fate.
