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PROLOGUE.

Wee've cause to fear yours, or the Poets frowne
For of late day's (he know's not (how) y'are grown,
Deeply in love with a new strayne of wit
Which he condemns, at least disliketh it,
And solemnely protests you are to blame
If at his hands you doe expect the same;
Hee'l tread his usuall way, no gaudy Sceane
Shall give instructions, what his plot doth meane;
No handsome Love-toy shall your time beguile
Forcing your pitty to a sigh or smile.
But a slight piece of mirth, yet such were writ
By our great Masters of the Stage and Wit,
Whom you approv'd: let not your suffrage then
Condemne't in him, and prayse't in other men.
Troth Gentlemen let me advise yee, spare
To vex the Poet full of age and care,
How he might strive to please yee, and beguile
His humerous expectation with a smile,
As if you would be satisfy'd, although
His Comedy containes no antique show.
Yet you to him your favour may expresse
As well as unto those whose forwardnesse
Make's them your Creatures thought, who in a way
To purchace fame give money with their Play,
Yet you sometimes pay deare for't, since they write
Lesse for your pleasure than their own delight.
Which if our Poet fayle in, may he be
A Sceane of Mirth in their next Comedye.