I do not here upon this hum'rous stage Bring my transformed verse, appareled With others' passions or with others' rage, With loves, with wounds, with factions furnished; But here present thee, only modeled In this poor frame, the form of mine own heart. Here, to revive myself, my muse is led With motions of her own t' act her own part, Striving to make her now contemned art As fair t' herself as possibly she can, Lest seeming of no force, of no desert, She might repent the course that she began, And with these times of dissolution, fall From goodness, virtue, glory, fame, and all. |