Apollo sings, his harp resounds: give room,
For now behold the golden pomp is come,
Thy pomp of plays which thousands come to see
With admiration both of them and thee.
O volume! worthy, leaf by leaf and cover,
To be with juice of cedar wash'd all over;
Here words with lines and lines with scenes consent
To raise an act to full astonishment;
Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoon and maids to die for love.
Love lies a-bleeding here, Evadne, there
Swells with brave rage, yet comely everywhere;
Here's A mad lover, there that high design
Of King and no King, and the rare plot thine.
So that whene'er we circumvolve our eyes,
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varieties
Ravish our spirits, that entranc'd we see
None writes love's passion in the world like thee.