The Prologue

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,     Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,     For my mean pen are too superior things:     Or how they all, or each their dates have run     Let Poets and Historians set these forth,     My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth.     But when my wondring eyes and envious heart     Great Bartas sugar'd lines, do but read o're     Fool I do grudge the Muses did not part     'Twixt him and me that overfluent store,     A Bartas can, do what a Bartas will     But simple I according to my skill.     From school-boyes tongue no rhet'rick we expect     Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,     Nor perfect beauty, where's a main defect:     My foolish, broken blemish'd Muse so sings     And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,     'Cause nature, made it so irreparable.     Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongu'd Greek,     Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain     By Art he gladly found what he did seek     A full requital of his, striving pain     Art can do much, but this maxime's most sure     A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.     I am obnoxious to each carping tongue     Who says my hand a needle better fits.     A Poets pen all scorn I should thus wrong.     For such despite they cast on Female wits:     If what I do prove well, it won't advance,     They'l say it's stoln, or else it was by chance.     But sure the Antique Greeks were far more mild,     Else of our Sexe why feigned they those Nine     And poesy made, Calliope's own child;     So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts Divine:     But this weak knot, they will full soon untie,     The Greeks did nought, but play the fools & lye.     Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.     Men have precedency, and still excell.     It is but vain unjustly to wage warre,     Men can do best, and women know it well     Preheminence in all and each is yours;     Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.     And oh ye high flown quills that soar the Skies,     And ever with your prey still catch your praise,     If e're you daigne these lowly lines your eyes     Give Thyme or Parsley wreath; I ask no bayes,     This mean and unrefined ore of mine     Will make you glistring gold, but more to shine: