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 I shall not need to crave your pardon for publishing this dramatic piece of Sir John Suckling (imperfect, I cannot say, but rather unfinish'd), there being a kind of perfection even in the most deficient fragments of this incomparable author. To evince that this copy was a faithful transcript from his own handwriting, I have said enough in my former epistle; and I thought it much better to send it into the world in the same state I found it, without the least addition, than procure it supplied by any other pen, which had not been less preposterous than the finishing of Venus' picture, so skilfully begun by Apelles, by some other hand. Nor are we without a sufficient precedent in works of this nature, and relating to an author, who confessedly is reputed the glory of the English stage (whereby you'll know I mean Ben Jonson), and in a play also of somewhat resembling name, The Sad Shepherd, extant in his third volume, which, though it wants two entire Acts, was nevertheless judg'd a piece of too much worth to be laid aside by the learned and honorable Sir [K. D.] who published that volume. We have also in print (written by the same hand) the very beginning only (for it amounts not to one full scene) of a tragedy called Mortimer; so that we find the same fate to have hapned to the works of two of the most celebrated and happy wits of this nation. Now, as it is to have been wish'd that this tragedy had come whole and compleat to public view, so is it some happiness that there is so much of it preserved; it being true of our author what Dr. Donne said of a famous artist of his time—

A HAND OR EYE BY HILLIARD DRAWN, IS WORTH A HISTORY BY A WORSE PAINTER MADE.

I shall add no more, but only say (with some just confidence) that I could not have answer'd myself, to the world, if I had suppressed this tragedy, and therefore may hope for some favour by its publication. Farewell.H. M.