OF Love's sweet war our timorous Muse doth sing, <br />And to the bosom of each gentle dear, <br />Offers her artless tunes, borne on the wing <br />Of sacred poesy. A benumbing fear, <br />That your nice souls, cloyed with delicious sounds, <br />Will loath her lowly notes, makes her pull in <br />Her fainting pinions, and her spirit confounds, <br />Before the weak voice of her song begin. <br />Yet since within the circle of each eye, <br />Being like so many suns in his round sphere, <br />No wrinkle yet is seen, she'll dare to fly, <br />Borne up with hopes, that as you oft do rear <br />With your fair hands, those who would else sink down, <br />So some will deign to smile, where all might frown: <br />And for this small circumference must stand, <br />For the imagined surface of much land, <br />Of many kingdoms, and since many a mile <br />Should here be measured out, our Muse entreats <br />Your thoughts to help poor art, and to allow <br />That I may serve as Chorus to her senses; <br />She begs your pardon, for she'll send one forth, <br />Not when the laws of poesy do call, <br />But as the story needs; your gracious eye <br />Gives life to Fortunatus' history.<br /><br />Thomas Dekker<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prologue-the-pleasant-comedy-of-old-fortunatus/