TO

THE RIGHT Noble lord, tTHE LORD

RANDAL MACDONNELL,

EARL OF ANTRIM IN THE Kingdom of IRELAND, LORD
VISCOUNT DUNLUCE *.

MY LORD,

PRINCES, and worthy personages of your own eminence, have entertained poems of this nature with a serious welcome. The desert of their authors might transcend mine, not their study of service.

* This nobleman was the son of Sir Randal Macdonell, who, in his youth, joined in Tyrone's rebellion, but subsequently be came a loyal subject of King James, and contributed greatly to the civilization of Ireland, for which service he was created successively Viscount Dunluce and Earl of Antrim. He died 18th December 1636. The peer who succeeded him, and to whom the present play is dedicated, was born in 1609. He attended King Charles I. in his expedition against Scotland in 1639; was accu sed of joining the rebels in Ireland in 1642, but cleared; but subsequently joined them for the benefit of his royal master. He was twice imprisoned by Major-General Monro in Carrickfergus, but escaped both times. In 1643, he was created Marquis of Antrim. Though he made his peace with Cromwell, he assisted Charles II. in his escape, after the battle of Worcester. He died at an advanced age, in the year 1673.

A practice of courtship to greatness hath not hitherto, in me, aimed at any thrift: yet I have ever honoured virtue, as the richest ornament to the noblest titles. Endeavour of being known to your Lordship, by such means, I conceive no ambition; the extent being bounded by humility: so neither can the argument appear ungracious; nor the writer, in that, without allowance. You enjoy, my Lord, the general suffrage, for your freedom of merits: may you likewise please, by this particular presentment, amongst the number of such, as I faithfully honour those merits, to admit, into your noble construction,

JOHN FORD.

PROLOGUE.

THE Fancies! that's our play; in it is shown
Nothing, but what our author knows his own
Without a learned theft; no servant here
To some fair mistress, borrows for his care,
His lock, his belt, his sword, the fancied grace
Of any pretty ribbon; nor, in place
Of charitable friendship, is brought in
A thriving gamester, that doth chance to win
A lusty sum; while the good hand doth ply him,
And fancies this or that, to him sits by him.
His free invention runs but in conceit
Of mere imaginations; there's the height
Of what he writes; which if traduced by some,
'Tis well, he says, he's far enough from home.
For you, for him, for us, then this remains,
Fancy your even opinions, for our pains.