Prologue. Toi
And this to mend, alas, no Art is able, 'Caufe nature, made it fo irreparable.
4-
Nor can I, like that fluent fweet tongu'd Greek,
Who lifp'd at firft, in future times fpeak plain ■^
By Art he gladly found what he did feek
A full requital of his, ftriving pain
Art can do much, but this maxime's mofl; fure [4]
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.
��I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who fays my hand a needle better fits, A Poets pen all fcorn I fliould thus wrong. For fuch defpite they caft on Female wits : If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'l fay it's floln, or elfe it was by chance.
6.
But fure the Antique Greeks were far more mild Elfe of our Sexe, why feigned they thofe Nine And poefy made. Calliope's own Child; So 'mongft the reft they placed the Arts Divine, But this weak knot, they will full foon untie. The Greeks did nought, but play the fools & lye.
s Ipeake afterwards more plaine.
�� �
