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Upon a mushroom's head,
A corn of rye, or wheat,
The brains of nightingales,
On tops of dewy grass,
So nimbly do we pass,
The young and tender stalk
Ne'er bends when we do walk;
Yet, in the morning, may be seen
Where we, the night before, have been.
The grasshopper and the fly
Serve for our Minstrelsy.
Grace said; we dance a while,
And so the time beguile :
And when the moon doth hide her head; The glowworm lights us home to bed.
I WONDER, Why, by foul-mouthed men, Women so slandered be!
Since it so easily doth appear
Why are the Graces, every one,
If not to show, that they in grace
Why are the Liberal Sciences
But t' shew, if they would study them,
And yet the Senses, every one,
Why are the Virtues, every one,
If not to shew, that they in them
Since Women are so full of worth;
TO MASTER HUMPHREY MOSLEY, AND MASTER HUMPHREY ROBINSON.
IN the large book of Plays, you, late, did print In BEAUMONT'S and in FLETCHER'S name; why in 't Did you not justice? give to each, his due?
For BEAUMONT, of those many, writ in few; And MASSINGER, in other few: the main Being sole issues of sweet FLETCHER'S brain. 'But how came I,' you ask, 'so much to know?' FLETCHER'S chief bosom friend informed me so. I' th' next impression therefore, justice do! And print their old ones in one volume too! For BEAUMONT's Works, and FLETCHER'S, should come forth
With all the right belonging to their worth.
AWAY, fond thing! Tempt me no more!
And be mine own, when I have done!
For thou art false! and wilt be so!