Francis Beaumont

(1584 – 6 March 1616 / Leicestershire)

The Author to the Reader


I sing the fortune of a luckless pair,
Whose spotless souls now in one body be;
For beauty still is Prodromus to care,
Crost by the sad stars of nativity:
And of the strange enchantment of a well,
Given by the Gods, my sportive muse doth write,
Which sweet-lipp'd Ovid long ago did tell,
Wherein who bathes, straight turns Hermaphrodite:
I hope my poem is so lively writ,
That thou wilt turn half-mad with reading it.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002
Edited: Friday, June 22, 2012

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