To Her Grace, the duchess of Cleveland.

Madam,

All authors whatever in their dedications are poets; but I am now to write to a lady, who stands as little in need of flattery, as her beauty of art. Otherwise, I should prove as ill a poet to her in my dedication, as to my reader in my play. I can do your Grace no honour, nor make you more admirers than you have already. Yet I can do myself the honour to let the world know, I am the greatest you have. You will pardon me, madam, for you know, it is very hard for a new author and poet too, to govern his ambition. For poets, let them pass in the world never so much, for modest, honest men, but begin praise to others, which concludes in themselves and are like rooks, who lend people money, but to win it back again and so leave them in debt to them for nothing. They offer laurel and incense to their heroes, but wear it themselves and perfume themselves. This is true, madam, upon the honest word of an author, who never yet wrote dedication, yet though I cannot lie like them, I am as vain as they and cannot but publicly give your Grace my humble acknowledgments for the favours I have received from you. This, I say, is the poet’s gratitude, which in plain English, is only pride and ambition. And that the world might know your Grace did me the honour to see my play twice together. Yet perhaps my enviers of your Grace favour will suggest it was in lent and therefore for your Grace mortification. Then, as a jealous author, I am concerned not to have your Grace’s favours lessened, or rather, my reputation and to let them know, you were pleased, after that, to command a copy from me of this play. The way without beauty and wit, to win a poor poet’s heart. It is a sign your Grace understands nothing better, then obliging all the world, after the best and most proper manner. But, madam, to be obliging to that excess as you are (pardon me, if I tell you, out of my extreme concern and service for your Grace), is a dangerous quality and may be very incommode to you. For civility makes poets as troublesome, as charity makes beggars and your Grace will be hereafter as much pestered with such scurvy offerings as this, poems, panegyrics and the like, as you are now with petitions. And, madam, take it from me, no man with papers in his hand, is more dreadful than a poet, no, not a lawyer with his declarations. your Grace sure did not well consider what you did, in sending for my play, you little thought I would have had the confidence to send you a dedication too. But, madam, you find I am as unreasonable and have as little conscience, as if I had driven the poetic trade longer than I have and never consider you had enough of the play. But (having suffered now so severely) I beseech your Grace, have a care for the future, take my counsel and be (if you can possible) as proud and ill-natured, as other people of quality, since your Grace quiet is so much concerned and since you have more reason than any to value your Grace self. For you have that perfection of beauty (without thinking it so) which others of your Grace sex, but think they have; that generosity in your Grace actions, which others of your Grace quality, have only in their promises; that spirit, wit and judgment and all other qualifications, which fit heroes to command and would make any but your Grace proud. I begin now elevated by my subject, to write with the emotion and fury of a poet, yet the integrity of a historian. And I could never be weary, nay, sure this were my only way, to make my readers never weary too, though they were a more impatient generation of people then they are. In fine, speaking thus of your Grace, I should please all the world but you. T herefore, I must once observe and obey you against my will and say no more, then that I am,

Madam,

Your Grace’s most obliged and most humble servant,

William Wycherley.