By way of preface to the edition of 1623 was the following Address. TO THE GREAT VARIETY OF READERS, There From the most able to him that can but spell: you are number'd. We had rather you were weigh'd: especially, when the fate of all books depends upon your capacities; and not of your heads alone, but of your purses. Well! it is now public, and will stand for your privileges, we know; to read, and censure. Do so, but buy it first: that doth best commend a book, the Stationer says. Then, how odd soever your brains be, or your wisdoms, make your license the same, and spare not. Judge your sixpen'orth, your shilling's worth, your five shillings' worth at a time, or higher, so you rise to the just rates, and welcome. But, whatever you do, buy. Censure will not drive a Trade, nor make the Jack go. And though you be a Magistrate of wit, and sit on the stage at Blackfriars, or the Cock-pit, to arraign plays daily, know, these plays have had their trial already, and stood out all appeals; and do now come forth quitted rather by a decree of court, than any purchas'd letters of commendation. It had been a thing, we confess, worthy to have been wished, that the Author himself had liv'd to have set forth, and overseen his own writings: But since it hath been ordain'd otherwise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not envy his Friends the office of their care and pain, to have collected and publish'd them; and so to have publish'd them, as where, before, you were abus'd with divers stolen and surreptitious copies, maimed and deformed by the frauds and stealths of in jurious impostors, that expos'd them; even those are now offer'd to your view cur'd, and perfect of their limbs; and all the rest absolute in their numbers, as he conceived them: Who, as he was a happy imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser of it. His mind and hand went together; and what he thought, he uttered with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our province, who only gather his works, and give them you, to praise him: it is yours that read him. And there we hope, to your divers capacities you will find enough both to draw, and hold you: for his wit can no more lie hid, than it could be lost. Read him, therefore; and again, and again: and if then you do not like him, surely you are in some manifest danger not to understand him. And so we leave you to other of his Friends, whom if you need, can be your guides: if you need them not, you can lead yourselves and others. And such Readers we wish him. JOHN HEMINGE. HENRIE CONDELL. COMMENDATORY VERSES. Prefixed to the folio of 1623. To the Memory of my beloved, the Author, Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much : Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kid, or Marlowe's mighty line: And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome, As they were not of Nature's family. (And himself with it,) that he thinks to frame; Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn, For a good poet's made, as well as born: And such wert thou. Look, how the father's face Lives in his issue; even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. To see thee in our waters yet appear; And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, But stay; I see thee in the hemisphere And despairs day, but for thy volume's light! BEN JONSON. To the Memory of the deceased Author, MASTER Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give Shall loathe what's new, think all is prodigy Of his, thy wit-fraught book shall once invade: |