If it might stand with justice to allow <br />The swift conversion of all follies; now, <br />Such is my mercy, that I could admit <br />All sorts should equally approve the wit <br />Of this thy even work, whose growing fame <br />Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name. <br />And did not manners and my love command <br />Me to forbear to make those understand, <br />Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom <br />Long since firmly resolved, shall never come <br />To know more than they do; I would have shewn <br />To all the world, the art, which thou alone <br />Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place, <br />And other rites, delivered, with the grace <br />Of comic style, which, only, is far more <br />Than any English stage hath known before. <br />But, since our subtle gallants think it good <br />To like of nought, that may be understood, <br />Lest they should he disproved; or have, at best, <br />Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest <br />But what's obscene, or barks: let us desire <br />They may continue, simply, to admire <br />Fine clothes, and strange words; and may live, in age, <br />To see themselves ill brought upon the stage, <br />And like it: whilst thy bold and knowing muse <br />Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.<br /><br />Francis Beaumont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-my-dear-friend-m-ben-jonson-on-his-fox/
