 | Aglaura |  |
Prologue to the Court.
Those common passions, hopes, and feares, that still,The Poets first and then the Prologues fill
In this our age, hee that writ this, by mee,
Protests against as modest foolerie.
Hee thinks it an odd thing to be in paine,
For nothing else, but to be well againe.
Who writes to feare is so; had hee not writ;
You nere had been the Iudges of his wit;
And when hee had, did hee but then intend
To please himselfe, hee sure might have his end
Without th'expence of hope, and that hee had
That made this Play, although the Play be bad.
Then Gentlemen be thriftie, save your doomes
For the next man, or the next Play that comes;
For smiles are nothing, where men doe not care,
And frownes as little, where they need not feare.
| Aglaura | |