 | The Nevv Inne. Or, The light Heart |  |
Epilogue.
Playes in themselues haue neither hopes, nor feares,Their fate is only in their hearers eares:
If you expect more then you had to night,
The maker is sick, and sad. But doe him right,
He meant to please you: for he sent things fit,
In all the numbers, both of sense, and wit,
If they ha' not miscarried! if they haue,
All that his faint, and faltring tongue doth craue,
Is, that you not impute it to his braine.
That's yet vnhurt, although set round with paine,
It cannot long hold out. All strength must yeeld.
Yet iudgement would the last be, i'the field,
With a true Poet. He could haue hal'd in
The drunkards, and the noyses of the Inne,
In his last Act; if he had thought it fit
To vent you vapours, in the place of wit:
But better 'twas, that they should sleepe, or spew,
Then in the Scene to offend or him, or you.
This he did thinke; and this doe you forgiue:
When ere the carcasse dies, this Art will liue.
And had he liu'd the care of King, and Queene,
His Art in somthing more yet had beene seene;
But Maiors, and Shriffes may yearely fill the stage:
A Kings, or Poets birth doe aske an age.
| The Nevv Inne. Or, The light Heart | |