To the right honourable, the lady Dorothy Shirley.
Madam, who make the glory of your blood
No privilege at all to be less good,
Pardon the rudeness of a comedy,
That, taught too great ambition, would fly
To kiss your white hand, and receive from thence
Both an authority and innocence.
It is not this great man, nor that prince, whose fame
Can more advance a poem, than your name,
To whose clear virtue truth is bound, and we,
That there is so much left for history.
I do acknowledge custom that to men
Such poems are presented, but my pen I
s not engaged nor can allow too far
A salic law in poetry to bar l
adies the inheritance of wit, whose soul
Is active, and as able to control,
As some usurp the chair, which write a style
To breath the reader better than a mile;
But no such empty titles but my flame;
Nor will I sin so much to show their name
In print; some servile Muses be their drudge,
That sweat to find a patron, not a judge.
To you, great Lady, then, in whom do meet c
andour and judgement, humble as your feet
I vow these papers, wishing you may see j
oys multiplied to your eternity.
Your Honour’s devoted servant,
Ja. Shirley.