 | The Sophy |  |
The Prologue.
Hither yee come, dislike, and so undoThe Players, and disgrace the Poet too;
But he protests against your votes, and sweares
Hee'll not be try'd by any, but his Peeres;
He claimes his priviledge, and sayes 'tis fit,
Nothing should be the Iudge of wit, but Wit.
Now you will all be Wits, and be I pray;
And you that discommend it, mend the Play:
'Tis the best satisfaction, he knowes then,
His turne will come, to laugh at you agen.
But Gentlemen, if yee dislike the Play,
Pray make no words on't till the second day,
Or third be past: For we would have you know it,
The losse will fall on us, not on the Poet:
For he writes not for money, nor for praise,
Nor to be call'd a Wit, nor to weare Bayes:
Cares not for frownes or smiles: so now you'll say,
Then why (the Devill) did he write a Play?
He sayes, 'twas then with him, as now with you,
He did it when he had nothing else to doe.
| The Sophy | |