University of Virginia Library

Prologue.

Would t'were a Custome that at all New-playes
The Makers sat o'th, Stage, either with Bayes
To haue their Workes Crownd, or beatē in with Hissing,
Pied and bold Ideotes, durst not then sit Kissing
A Muses cheeke: Shame would base Changelings weane,
From Sucking the mellifluous Hypocrene:
Who write as blinde-men shoote, by (Hap, not Ayme,)
So, Fooles by lucky Throwing, oft win the Game.
Phœbus has many Bastards, True Sonnes sewe,
I meane of those, whose quicke cleare-eyes can viewe.
Poesies pure Essence, It being so diuine,
That the Suns Fires, (euen when they brightest shine)
Or Lightning, when most subtillie Ioue does spend it,
May as soone be approchd, weyed, touchd, or comprehēded.
But tis with Poets now, as tis with Nations,
Thil-fauouredst Vices, are the brauest Fashions.
A Play whose Rudenes, Indians would abhorre,
Ist fill a house with Fish wiues, Rare, They All Roare.
It is not Praise is sought for (Now) but Pence,
Tho dropd, from Greasie-apron Audience.
Clapd may he bee with Thunder, that plucks Bayes,
With such Foule Hands, & with Squint-Eyes does gaze
On Pallas Shield; not caring (so hee Gaines,
A Cramd Third-Day, what Filth drops frō his Braines.
Let Those that loue Pans pipe, daunce still to Pan,
They shall but get long Eares by it: Giue me That Man,
Who when the Plague of an Impostumd Braynes
(Breaking-out) infects a Theater, and hotly raignes,
Killing the Hearers hearts, that the vast roomes
Stand empty, like so many Dead-mens toombes,
Can call the Banishd Auditor home, And tye
His Eare (with golden chaines) to his Melody:
Can draw with Adamantine Pen, (euen creatures
Forg'de out of th'Hammer, on tiptoe, to Reach-vp,
And (from Rare silence) clap their Brawny hands,
T'Applaud, what their charmd soule scarce vnderstands.
That Man giue mee; whose Brest fill'd by the Muses,
With Raptures, Into a second, them infuses:
Can giue an Actor, Sorrow, Rage, Ioy, Passion,
Whilst hee againe (by selfe-same Agitation)
Commands the Hearers, sometimes drawing out Teares,
Then smiles, and fills them both with Hopes & Feares.
That Man giue mee: And to bee such-a-One,
Our Poet (this day) striues, or to bee None:
Lend not (Him) hands for Pittie, but for Merit,
If he Please, hee's Crownd, if Not, his Fate must beare it.