 | The VVitts |  |
The Prologve.
Blesse mee you kinder Stars! How are wee throng'd?Alas! whom, hath our long-sick-Poet wrong'd,
That hee should meet together in one day
A Session, and a Faction at his Play?
To Iudge, and to Condemne: For't cannot be
Amongst so many here, all should agree.
Then 'tis to such vast expectation rais'd,
As it were to be wonder'd at, not prais'd:
And this, good faith Sir Poet (if I've read
Customes, or Men) strikes you, and your Muse dead!
Conceave now too, how much, how oft each Eare
Hath surfeited in this our Hemispheare,
With various, pure, eternall Wit; and then
My fine young Comick Sir, y'are kill'd agen.
But 'bove the mischiefe of these feares, a sort
Of cruell Spies (wee heare) intend a sport
Among themselves; our mirth must not at all
Tickle, or stir their Lungs, but shake their Gall.
So this joyn'd with the rest, makes mee agin
To say, You and your Lady Muse within
Will have but a sad doome; and your trim Brow
Which long'd for Wreathes, you must weare naked now;
'Lesse some resolve out of a courteous pride,
To like and praise what others shall deride:
So they've their humor too; and wee in spight
Of our dull Braines, will thinke each side i'th right.
Such is your pleasant judgements upon Playes,
Like Par'lells that run straight, though sev'rall wayes.
| The VVitts | |