 | The Soddered Citizen |  |
The Prologue./
Ould Sarum's Playne, Gads, Sutors hillOur Poett rang'd, that course prou'd ill;
Better resolu'd, hee makes accompt
To sollace, on Parnassus Mount,:
But in your Censures, danger lyes,
Which are, as then were, Hue, & cryes,
And yett the Plott, & language, all,
Hee his owne proper Coyne, may call,
Has robbd noe Authors, in him, thefte
Vnpardonable, that Trade lefte,
Hee's honest growne, his Muses flight
(Newe fledg'd) is meane, the Persons light,
Yett Commicall, but you whose eare,
Sucks in dislike, vnlesse itt heare
The Acts of Princes, wrought with words,
Whose Sence (scarce found) meerely affords
Rellish to your choyce taste, for you,
Hee has a wayeinge Scæne, or two,:
Hee thinks to please, is not dismaide,
But with an expectation, staide,
As you shall rellish, or distast,
H'as but begunn, or writt his last;
| The Soddered Citizen | |