A Select Collection of Old English Plays Part 1

A Select Collection of Old English Plays.

by Robert Dodsley.

INTRODUCTION.

THOMAS RAWLINS, author of "The Rebellion," was a medallist by profession, and afterwards became an engraver of the Mint, a vocation which, in his preface, he prefers to the threadbare occupation of a poet. [He also employed his talents occasionally in engraving frontispieces and portraits for books, of which several signed specimens are known.[2] It is said that he died in 1670.] It is an argument, as well of his personal respectability, as of his easy circ.u.mstances, that no fewer than eleven copies of prefatory verses, by the wits of the time, are prefixed to the old edition. Notwithstanding the popularity of the piece, [which, as it appears from the introductory poems, was composed by Rawlins in early life,] and several pa.s.sages of real merit, it was [only once] republished, perhaps because rebellion soon a.s.sumed the whole kingdom for its stage.

[Besides his play, Rawlins published in 1648 an octavo volume of poems, written also in his youth, under the t.i.tle of "Calanthe."[3]]

TO THE WORs.h.i.+PFUL, AND HIS HONOURED KINSMAN,

ROBERT DUCIE,[4]

OF ASTON, IN THE COUNTY OF STAFFORD, ESQUIRE;

SON TO SIR R. DUCIE, KNIGHT AND BARONET, DECEASED.

SIR,--Not to boast of any perfections, I have never yet been owner of ingrat.i.tude, and would be loth envy should tax me now, having at this time opportunity to pay part of that debt I owe your love. This tragedy had at the presentment a general applause; yet I have not that want of modesty as to conclude it wholly worthy your patronage, although I have been bold to fix your name unto it. Yet, however, your charity will be famous in protecting this plant from the breath of Zoilus, and forgiving this my confidence, and your acceptance cherish a study of a more deserving piece, to quit the remainder of the engagement. In

Your kinsman, ready to serve you, THOMAS RAWLINS.

TO THE READER.

READER, if courteous, I have not so little faith as to fear thy censure, since thou knowest youth hath many faults, whereon I depend, although my ignorance of the stage is also a sufficient excuse. If I have committed any, let thy candour judge mildly of them; and think not those voluntary favours of my friends (by whose compulsive persuasions I have published this) are commendations of my seeking, or through a desire in me to increase the volume, but rather a care that you (since that I have been over-entreated to present it to you) might find therein something worth your time. Take no notice of my name, for a second work of this nature shall hardly bear it. I have no desire to be known by a threadbare cloak, having a calling that will maintain it woolly. Farewell.

TO HIS LOVING FRIEND THE AUTHOR,

UPON HIS TRAGEDY "THE REBELLION."

To praise thee, friend, and show the reason why, Issues from honest love, not flattery.

My will is not to flatter, nor for spite To praise or dispraise, but to do thee right Proud daring rebels in their impious way Of Machiavellian darkness this thy play Exactly shows; speaks thee truth's satirist, Rebellion's foe, time's honest artist.

Thy continu'd scenes, parts, plots, and language can Distinguish (worthily) the virtuous man From the vicious villain, earth's fatal ill, Intending mischievous traitor Machiavel.

Him and his treach'rous 'complices, that strove (Like the gigantic rebels war 'gainst Jove) To disenthrone Spain's king (the Heaven's anointed), By stern death all were justly disappointed.

Plots meet with counterplots, revenge and blood: Rebels' ruin makes thy tragedy good.

NATH. RICHARDS.[5]

TO HIS WORTHY ESTEEMED MASTER,

THOMAS RAWLINS, ON HIS "REBELLION."

I may not wonder, for the world does know, What poets can, and ofttimes reach unto.

They oft work miracles: no marvel, then, Thou mak'st thy tailor here a n.o.bleman: Would all the trade were honest too; but he Hath learn'd the utmost of the mystery, Filching with cunning industry the heart Of such a beauty, which did prove the smart Of many worthy lovers, and doth gain That prize which others labour'd for in vain.

Thou mak'st him valiant too, and such a spirit, As every n.o.ble mind approves his merit.

But what renown th' hast given his worth, 'tis fit The world should render to thy hopeful wit, And with a welcome plaudit entertain This lovely issue of thy teeming brain.

That their kind usage to this birth of thine May win so much upon thee, for each line Thou hast bequeath'd the world, thou'lt give her ten, And raise more high the glory of thy pen.

Accomplish these our wishes, and then see How all that love the arts will honour thee.

C. G.[6]

TO MY FRIEND MASTER RAWLINS,

UPON THIS PLAY, HIS WORK.

Friend, in the fair completeness of your play Y' have courted truth; in these few lines to say Something concerning it, that all may know I pay no more of praise than what I owe.

'Tis good, and merit much more fair appears Appareled in plain praise, than when it wears A complimental gloss. Tailors may boast Th' have gain'd by your young pen what they long lost By the old proverb, which says, _Three to a man_: But to your vindicating muse, that can Make one a man, and a man n.o.ble, they Must wreaths of bays as their due praises pay.

ROBERT DAVENPORT.[7]

TO THE AUTHOR, ON HIS "REBELLION."

Thy play I ne'er saw: what shall I say then?

I in my vote must do as other men, And praise those things to all, which common fame Does boast of such a hopeful growing flame Which, in despite of flattery, shall s.h.i.+ne, Till envy at thy glory do repine: And on Parna.s.sus' cliffy top shall stand, Directing wand'ring wits to wish'd-for land; Like a beacon o' th' Muses' hill remain, That still doth burn, no lesser light retain; To show that other wits, compar'd with thee, Is but Rebellion i' th' high'st degree.

For from thy labours (thus much I do scan) A tailor is enn.o.bled to a man.

R. W.[8]

TO HIS DEAR FRIEND, MR. THOMAS RAWLINS.

To see a springot of thy tender age With such a lofty strain to word a stage; To see a tragedy from thee in print, With such a world of fine meanders in't, Puzzles my wond'ring soul; for there appears Such disproportion 'twixt thy lines and years, That when I read thy lines, methinks I see The sweet-tongued Ovid fall upon his knee, With (_parce precor_) every line and word Runs in sweet numbers of its own accord: But I am wonder-struck that all this while Thy unfeather'd quill should write a tragic style.

This above all my admiration draws, That one so young should know dramatic laws.

'Tis rare, and therefore is not for the span Or greasy thumbs of every common man.

The damask rose, that sprouts before the spring, Is fit for none to smell at but a king.

Go on, sweet friend; I hope in time to see Thy temples rounded with the Daphnean tree.

And if men ask who nurs'd thee, I'll say thus, It was the ambrosian spring of Pegasus.

ROBERT CHAMBERLAIN.[9]

TO HIS FRIEND, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS,

ON HIS PLAY CALLED "THE REBELLION."

I will not praise thee, friend, nor is it fit, Lest I be said to flatter what y' have writ: For some will say I writ to applaud thee, That when I print, thou may'st do so for me.

Faith, they're deceiv'd, thou justly claim'st thy bays: Virtue rewards herself; thy work's thy praise.

T. JOURDAN.[10]