To his Kind, and True Friend:
Edward Blunt.
Blount: I purpose to be blunt with you, and out of my dullness to encounter
you with a Dedication in the memory of that pure elemental wit, Chris
Marlow; whose ghost or Genius is to be seen walk the Churchyard
in (at the least) three or four sheets. Me thinks you should presently
look wild now, and grow humorously frantic upon the taste of it. Well,
lest you should, let me tell you.
This spirit [Marlowe] was sometimes a familiar of your own, Lucans
first book translated; which (in regard of your old right
in it) I have raised in the circle of your Patronage. But stay now,
Edward (If I mistake not) you are to accommodate your self with
some few instructions, touching the property of a Patron, that
you are not yet possessed of; and to study them for your better grace
as our Gallants do fashions.
First, you must be proud and think you have merit enough in you, though
you are never so empty; then when I bring you the book, take physick
[a sedative], and keep state, assign me a time by
your man to come again, and afore the day, be sure to have changed your
lodging; in the mean time, sleep little, and sweat with the invention
of some pitiful dry jest or two which you may happen to utter, with some
little (or not at all) marking of your friends when you have found a
place for them to come in at; or if by chance something from you has
dropped worth the taking up , weary all that come to you with the often
repetition of it; censure scornfully enough , and somewhat like
a travailer; commend nothing [lest] you discredit your (that which you
would seem to have) judgment.
These things, if you mould your self to them Ned, I make no question
but they will not become you. One special virtue of our Patrons of these
days I have promised myself you shall fit excellently, which is to give
nothing; Yes, thy love I will challenge as my peculiar Object both
in this, and (I hope) many more succeeding offices : Farewell, I affect
not the world should measure my thoughts to thee by a scale of this Nature:
Leave to think good of me when I fall from thee.
- Thine in all rites of perfect friendship,
- THOM. THORPE
-
-
-
