 | Thyestes |  |
PROLOGUE.
What cursed Planet o're this Play-house raigns,Palsies, and Gouts, are all the Old mens gains;
And we young men, e're we have learnt to speak,
Have learnt the Old mens cursed trick, to Break.
Some went to Scotland; they had cunning Plots
Who went to sell the English wit to Scots.
Scots in that traffique excell you I fear,
Witness their Covenant they told you so dear:
So those young men are come as wealthy home,
As they return devout who go for Rome:
But still we are followed with a cursed blast,
For in the harbours mouth we have split our Mast,
And such Poetique Jewels perish here,
As might be worn with pride in any Ear;
Our massy treasure we shall ne're buy up.
But live on poor slight stuff that floats atop.
To day like cunning Romish Priests we try
If we can awe you, with an antient lye.
Some say you must not dare to pass a doom,
On what has been admir'd by Greece and Rome.
You upstart Sectaries of wit cry down
What has for twenty ages had renown?
The world will ask (in scorn of your dispraise)
Where was your wit, Sirs, before Shakespears days?
No matter where, we'l say y'have excellent sence,
If you will please to let us get your pence.
We like the Pope regard not much your praise,
He Tickets sells for Heaven, and we for Plays;
All but to make advantage of the Keys;
Pay for your Tickets, and go where you please.
| Thyestes | |