 | The Damoiselle, or The New Ordinary |  |
Prologue.
Our Playmaker (for yet he won't be calldAuthor, or Poet) nor beg to be installd
Sir Lawreat) has sent me out t' invite
Your fancies to a full and cleane delight:
And bids me tell you, That though he be none
Of those, whose towring Muses scale the Throne
Of Kings, yet his familiar mirth's as good,
When tis by you approv'd and understood.
As if h' had writ strong lines, and had the fate,
Of other Fools for medling with the State.
Readers and Audients make good Playes or Books,
Tis appetite makes Dishes, tis not Cooks.
But let me tell you, though you have the power,
To kill or save; They're Tyrants that devoure,
And Princes that preserve: He does not ayme,
So much at praise, as pardon; nor does claime
Lawrell, but Money; Bayes will buy no Sack,
And Honour fills no belly, cloaths no back.
And therefore you may see his maine intent
Is his owne welfare, and your merriment.
Then often come, 'twill make us and him the wetter,
Wee'l drown the faults of this, in one that's better.
| The Damoiselle, or The New Ordinary | |