My Lord, _There is none among all the_ Names _of_ Honour, _that hath A
more encouraged the_ Legitimate Muses _of this latter Age, then that
which is owing to your_ Familie; _whose_ Coronet _shines bright with the
native luster of its owne_ Jewels, _which with the accesse of some Beames
of_ Sydney, _twisted with their_ Flame _presents a_ Constellation, _from
whose_ Influence _all good may be still expected upon Witt and Learning_.
_At this_ Truth _we rejoyce, but yet aloofe, and in our owne valley, for
we dare not approach with any capacity in our selves to apply your
Smile, since wee have only preserved as_ Trustees _to the_ Ashes _of the
Authors, what wee exhibit to your_ Honour, _it being no more our owne,
then those_ Imperiall Crownes _and_ Garlands _were the Souldiers, who
were honourably designed for their Conveyance before the_ Triumpher _to
the_ Capitol.
_But directed by the example of some, who once steered in our qualitie,
and so fortunately aspired to choose your_ Honour, _joyned with your (now
glorified_) Brother, Patrons _to the flowing compositions of the then
expired sweet_ Swan _of_ Avon SHAKESPEARE; _and since, more particularly
bound to your_ Lordships _most constant and diffusive_ Goodnesse, _from
which, wee did for many calme yeares derive a subsistence to our
selves, and Protection to the Scene (now withered, and condemned, as we
feare, to a long Winter and sterilitie) we have presumed to offer to your_
Selfe, _what before was never printed of these_ Authours.
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