87
To Endimion Porter,
When my Comedy (call'd the
Wits) was presented at Black-Fryars.
Heare, how for want of others griefe, I mourne
My sad decay, and weepe at mine owne Urne!
The Hou'rs (that ne're want Wings, when they should fly
To hasten Death, or lead on Destinie,)
Have now fulfill'd the time, when I must come
Chain'd to the Muses Barre, to take my doome:
Where ev'ry Terme, some tim'rous Poet stands,
Condemn'd by whispers, e're repriv'd by hands.
I that am told conspiracies are laid,
To have my Muse, her Arts, and life betray'd,
Hope for no easie Judge; though thou wert there,
T'appease, and make their judgements lesse severe.
My sad decay, and weepe at mine owne Urne!
The Hou'rs (that ne're want Wings, when they should fly
To hasten Death, or lead on Destinie,)
Have now fulfill'd the time, when I must come
Chain'd to the Muses Barre, to take my doome:
Where ev'ry Terme, some tim'rous Poet stands,
Condemn'd by whispers, e're repriv'd by hands.
I that am told conspiracies are laid,
To have my Muse, her Arts, and life betray'd,
Hope for no easie Judge; though thou wert there,
T'appease, and make their judgements lesse severe.
In
