 | The English Traveller |  |
The Prologue.
A strange Play you are like to haue, for know,We vse no Drum, nor Trumpet, nor Dumbe show;
No Combate, Marriage, not so much to day,
As Song, Dance, Masque, to bumbaste out a Play;
Yet these all good, and still in frequent vse
With our best Poets; nor is this excuse
Made by our Author, as if want of skill
Caus'd this defect; it's rather his selfe will:
Will you the reason know? There haue so many
Beene in that kind, that Hee desires not any
At this time in His Sceane, no helpe, no straine,
Or flash that's borrowed from an others braine;
Nor speakes Hee this that Hee would haue you feare it,
He onely tries if once bare Lines will beare it;
Yet may't afford, so please you silent sit,
Some Mirth, some Matter, and perhaps some Wit.
| The English Traveller | |