 | The Chances |  |
21
Prologue.
Aptnesse for mirth to all, this instant nightThalia hath prepar'd for your delight,
Her choice and curious Viands, in each part,
Season'd with rarities of wit, as Art;
Nor feare I to be tax'd for a vaine boast,
My promise will finde credit with the most,
When they know Ingenuous Fletcher made it, hee
Being in himselfe a perfect Comedie.
And some sit here, I doubt not dare averre,
Living he made that house a Theater
Which he pleas'd to frequent; and thus much we
Could not but pay to his loud memorie.
For our selves we doe entreat that you would not
Expect strange turnes, and windings in the Plot,
Objects of State, and now and then a Rhime,
To gall particular persons, with the time;
Or that his towring Muse hath made her flight
Nearer your apprehension then your fight:
But if that sweet expressions, quick conceit,
Familiar language, fashion'd to the weight
Of such as speake it, have the power to raise
Your grace to us, with Trophies to his praise:
We may professe, presuming on his skill,
If his Chances please not you, our fortune's ill.
| The Chances | |