 | The Alchemist |  |
Prologve.
Fortvne, that fauours fooles, these two short houresWe wish away; both for your sakes, and ours,
Iudging Spectators: and desire in place,
To th'Author iustice, to our selues but grace.
Our Scene is London, 'cause we would make knowne,
No countries mirth is better then our owne.
No clime breeds better matter, for your whore,
Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more,
606
And which haue still beene subiect, for the rage
Or spleene of comick-writers. Though this pen
Did neuer aime to grieue, but better men;
How e'er the age, he liues in, doth endure
The vices that shee breeds, aboue their cure.
But, when the wholsome remedies are sweet,
And, in their working, gaine, and profit meet,
He hopes to find no spirit so much diseas'd,
But will, with such faire correctiues be pleas'd.
For here, he doth not feare, who can apply.
If there be any, that will sit so nigh
Vnto the streame, to looke what it doth run,
They shall find things, they'ld thinke, or wish, were done;
They are so naturall follies, but so showne,
As euen the doers may see, and yet not owne.
| The Alchemist | |