 | The Doubtfull Heir |  |
Prologue.
All that the Prologue comes for, is to say,Our Author did not calculate this Play
For this Meridian; the Banckside, he knows,
Are far more skilfull at the Ebbes and flows
Of water, than of wit, he did not mean
For the elevation of your poles, this scene.
No shews, no dance, and what you most delight in,
Grave understanders, here's no target fighting
Upon the Stage, all work for Cutlers barr'd,
No bawdery, nor no Ballets; this goes hard;
But language clean, and what affects you not,
Without impossibilities the Plot;
No clown, no squibs, no Devill in't; oh now
You Squirrels that want Nuts, what will you do?
Pray do not crack the benches; and we may
Hereafter fit your Palats with a Play:
But you that can contract your selves, and sit
As you were now in the Black-Fryers pit;
And will not deaf us, with leud noise and tongues,
Because we have no Heart to break our Lungs,
Will pardon our vast Stage, and not disgrace
This Play, meant for your persons, not the place.
| The Doubtfull Heir | |