  EDITION.The Rebellion; a Tragedy: As it was acted nine dayes together, and divers times since, with good applause, by his Majesties Company of Revells. Written by Thomas Rawlins. London: Printed by I. Okes, for Daniell Frere, and are to be sold at the Signe of the Red Bull in Little Brittaine. 1640, 4o. 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. [Besides his play, Rawlins published in 1648 an octavo volume of poems, written also in his youth, under the title of "Calanthe." TO THE WORSHIPFUL, AND HIS HONOURED KINSMAN, ROBERT DUCIE, OF ASTON, IN THE COUNTY OF STAFFORD, SON TO SIR R. DUCIE, KNIGHT AND BARONET, DECEASED. Sir,—Not to boast of any perfections, I have never yet been owner of ingratitude, 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, 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 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. 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 nobleman: 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 noble 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 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. 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 noble, they Must wreaths of bays as their due praises pay. Robert Davenport. 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 shine, Till envy at thy glory do repine: 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 ennobled to a man. R. W. 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. It was the ambrosian spring of Pegasus. Robert Chamberlain. 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. TO THE AUTHOR, MASTER THOMAS RAWLINS. Kind friend, excuse me, that do thus intrude, Thronging thy volume with my lines so rude. Applause is needless here, yet this I owe, As due to th' Muses; thine ne'er su'd (I know) For hands, nor voice, nor pen, nor other praise Whatsoe'er by mortals us'd, thereby to raise An author's name eternally to bliss. Were't rightly scann'd (alas!) what folly 'tis! As if a poet's single work alone Wants power to lift him to the spangled throne Of highest Jove; or needs their lukewarm fires, To cut his way or pierce the circled spheres. Thus fondly deem'st of poet's princely art, Here needs no paltry petty pioneer's skill To fortify; nay, thy mellifluous quill Strikes Momus with amaze and silence deep, And doom'd poor Zoilus to the Lethean sleep. Then ben't dismay'd, I know thy book will live, And deathless trophies to thy name shall give. Who doubts, where Venus and Minerva meet In every line, how pleasantly they greet? Strewing thy paths with roses, red and white, To deck thy silver-streams of fluent wit; And entertain the graces of thy mind. O, may thy early head sweet shelter find Under the umbrage of those verdant bays, Ordain'd for sacred poesy's sweet lays! Such are thy lines, in such a curious dress, Compos'd so quaintly, that, if I may guess, None save thine own should dare t' approach the press. I. Gough. TO THE INGENIOUS AUTHOR. A sour and austere kind of men there be, That would outlaw the laws of poesy; And from a commonwealth's well-govern'd lists Some grave and too much severe Platonists Would exclude poets, and have enmity With the soul's freedom, ingenuity. These are so much for wisdom, they forget That Heaven allow'th the use of modest wit. These think the author of a jest alone Is the man that deserves damnation; Holding mirth vicious, and to laugh a sin: Yet we must give these cynics leave to grin. The plains of fair Elysium? sit among A crowned troop of poets, and a throng Of ancient bards, which soul-delighting choir Sings daily anthems to Apollo's lyre? Amongst which thou shalt sit, and crowned thus, Shalt laugh at Cato and Democritus. Thus shall thy bays be superscrib'd: my pen Did not alone make plays, but also men. E. B. TO HIS FRIEND THE AUTHOR. Bless me, you sacred Sisters! What a throng Of choice encomiums 's press'd? such as was sung When the sweet singer Stesichorus liv'd; Upon whose lips the nightingale surviv'd. What makes my sickly fancy hither hie (Unless it be for shelter), when the eye Of each peculiar artist makes a quest After my slender judgment? then a jest Dissolves my thoughts to nothing, and my pains Has its reward in adding to my stains. But as the river of Athamas can fire The sullen wood, and make its flames aspire, So the infused comfort I receive By th' tie of friendship, prompts me to relieve My fainting spirits, and with a full sail Rush 'mongst your argosies; despite of hail Or storms of critics, friend, to thee I come: I know th' hast harbour, I defy much room: Besides, I'll pay thee for't in grateful verse, Since that thou art wit's abstract, I'll rehearse: Nothing shall wool your ears with a long phrase Of a sententious folly; for to raise Condemn'd for the sincere prolixity. Let envy turn her mantle, and expose Her rotten entrails to infect the rose, Or pine—like greenness of thy extant wit: Yet shall thy Homer's shield demolish it. Upon thy quill as on an eagle's wing, Thou shalt be led through th' air's sweet whispering: And with thy pen thou shalt engrave thy name (Better than pencil) in the list of fame. I. Tatham. ON MASTER RAWLINS AND HIS TAILOR, In what a strange dilemma stood my mind, When first I saw the tailor, and did find It so well-fraught with wit! but when I knew The noble tailor to proceed from you, I stood amaz'd, as one with thunder struck, And knew not which to read; you or your book. I wonder how you could, being of our race, So eagle-like look Phoebus in the face. I wonder how you could, being so young, And teeming yet, encounter with so strong And firm a story; 'twould indeed have prov'd A subject for the wisest, that had lov'd To suck at Aganippe. But go on, My best of friends; and as you have begun With that is good, so let your after-times Transcendent be. Apollo he still shines On the best wits; and if a Momus chance On this thy volume scornfully to glance, That virtue will at length make envy flee. I. Knight. TO HIS INGENIOUS FRIEND, MASTER RAWLINS, THE AUTHOR OF "THE REBELLION." What need I strive to praise thy worthy frame, Or raise a trophy to thy lasting name? Were my bad wit with eloquence refin'd, When I have said my most, the most's behind. But that I might be known for one of them, Which do admire thy wit and love thy pen, I could not better show forth my good-will, Than to salute you with my virgin quill, And bring you something to adorn your head Among a throng of friends, who oft have read Your learned poems, and do honour thee And thy bright genius. How like a curious tree Is thy sweet fancy, bearing fruit so rare The learned still will covet. Momus no share Shall have of it; but end his wretched days In grief, 'cause now he seeth th' art crown'd with bays. Jo. Meriell. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Alerzo, } three Spanish colonels.
Leonis, } three French colonels.
Attendants. Scene—Seville. |
|
