The prologue spoken by Mr. Powel at Oxford, July the tenth, 1682 Powel, Mr. This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A55995 of text R8346 in the English Short Title Catalog (Wing P3659). Textual changes and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life. The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish. This text has not been fully proofread Approx. 2 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. EarlyPrint Project Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO 2018 A55995 Wing P3659 ESTC R8346 12639409 ocm 12639409 65002 2240971881

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Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A55995) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 65002) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 773:4) The prologue spoken by Mr. Powel at Oxford, July the tenth, 1682 Powel, Mr. 1 sheet ([1] p.) s.n., [London : 1682] Broadside. Reproduction of original in Huntington Library. eng Broadsides -- England -- London -- 17th century eebo The prologue spoken by Mr. Powel. at Oxford, July the tenth. 1682. [no entry] 1682 1 354 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription. 2008-04 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-06 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-07 Sampled and proofread 2008-07 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
THE PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. POWEL . at Oxford , July the Tenth . 1682. 3. Aug. 1682 BY a dissenting Play-house frantick rage , We the poor remnant of a ruin'd Stage , Must call the very Storm that wrack't us kind , Since we this safe , and pleasant harbour find : So shipwrack't Passengers , if they espy Any kind remnant of the Ship that 's nigh , Embrace with thanks the charitable Oar That Fate prepar'd , and make towards the Shore . Our tribe infected with the City fits , Was setting up a Common-wealth of wits , And still ( to make the parallel more true ) Was falling out , and without reason too : Mov'd by these broils , which rass'd us still more high , We made at last a real Tragedy . Old Relique's of th' infection still we bear , For each man here is turn'd Petitioner . And to your kindness , for the double recruit Of Wit and Fortune , makes his humble Suit . Faith 't was high time to leave the noisy Town , When what scarce made a show was pulling down . When Our gay Ribbons , and such useless things , Were all condemn'd to make new Bible Strings . Our short-Jump Canters stifly have defy'd All Rhymes , since David's good Burlesquers dy'd ; Have all things else but State-lampoons decry'd . Good Poems they like Holy-water fear , Because there seem's some kind of concord there . Here Genuine peace do's ev'ry breast inspire , And to a general calmness all conspire . Rebellion , which is there the onely Prize By which the canting , hot-brain'd Zealots rise , In this fair Paradise dare's not show her face , As if some flameing Cherub kept the place . So when the Plague Our Climate did infest , And with new-heats the late burnt Town posses 't ; The fearful Steams ( that lodg'd i th' circling Air ) Kept out of sight , and durst not enter here . FINIS .