 | The citye match |  |
THE EPILOGVE AT BLACK-FRIERS.
Once more the Author, ere you rise, doth sayThough he have publique warrant for his play,
Yet he to th'Kings command needs the Kings Writ
To keep him safe, not to b'arraign'd for Wit.
Not that he feares his name can suffer wrack
From them who six-pence pay, and six-pence crack.
To such he wrote not; though some parts have been
So like here, that They to Themselves came in.
To Them who call't reproofe to make a face,
Who think they judge when they frown ith'wrong place;
Who if they speak not ill oth' Poet, doubt
They loose by th'Play, nor have their two shillings out,
He saies, he hopes, they'l not expect he'd wooe,
The Play being done, they'd end their sowre looks too.
But before you who did true Hearers sit,
Who singly make a box, and fill the Pit,
Who to his Comœdy read, and unseen,
Had thronged Theaters, and Black-Friers been,
He for his Doome stands; your Hands are his Bayes;
Since They can onely clap, who know to praise.
| The citye match | |