 | The Spanish Curat |  |
Prologue.
To tell ye (Gentlemen,) we have a Play,A new one too, and that 'tis launch'd to day,
The Name ye know, that's nothing to my Story;
To tell ye, 'tis familiar, void of Glory;
Of State, of Bitternesse: of wit you'll say,
For that is now held wit, that tends that way,
Which we avoid: To tell ye to 'tis merry,
And meant to make ye pleasant, and not weary:
The Streame that guides ye, easie to attend:
To tell ye that 'tis good, is to no end,
If you believe not. Nay, to goe thus far,
To sweare it, if you sweare against, is war
To assure you any thing, unlesse you see,
And so conceive, is vanity in me;
Therefore I leave it to it selfe, and pray
Like a good Barke, it may worke out to day,
And stem all doubts; 'twas built for such a proofe,
And we hope highly: if she lye aloofe
For her owne vantage, to give wind at will,
Why let her worke, onely be you but still,
And sweet opinion'd, and we are bound to say,
You are worthy Judges, and you crowne the Play.
| The Spanish Curat | |