TO MY DEAR SON, RIGHT-LEARNED FRIEND, MASTER JOSEPH RUTTER by BEN JONSON

You look, my Joseph, I should something say
Unto the world, in praise of your first play:
And truly, so I would, could I be heard.
You know, I never was of truth afeared,
And less ashamed; not when I told the crowd
How well I loved truth: I was scarce allowed
By those deep-grounded, understanding men,
That sit to censure plays, yet know not when,
Or why to like; they found, it all was new,
And newer, than could please them, because true.
Such men I met withal, and so have you.
Now, for mine own part, and it is but due,
(You have deserved it from me) I have read,
And weighed your play: untwisted every thread,
And know the woof, and warp thereof; can tell
Where it runs round, and even: where so well,
So soft, and smooth it handles, the whole piece,
As it were spun by nature, off the fleece:
This is my censure. Now there is a new
Office of wit, a mint, and (this is true)
Cried up of late: whereto there must be first
A master-worker called, the old standard burst
Of wit, and a new made: a warden then,
And a comptroller, two most rigid men
For order, and for governing the pix,
A 'say-master, hath studied all the tricks
Of fineness, and alloy: follow his hint,
You have all the mysteries of wit's new mint,
The valuations, mixtures, and the same
Concluded from a carract to a dram.

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