Henry the Sixth, The First part With the murder of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester |
The Prologue.
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 | Henry the Sixth, The First part |  |
The Prologue.
With much ado a Prologue we obtain'd,From th'Author who this good old Play did mend.
He said a Prologue was a Painted Clout,
Only to tell the Shew within, hung out,
And he no pains wou'd on the Clout bestow,
When very few wou'd come to see the Show.
The Comet that last Summer flam'd obove,
Has dropt his Pitch in every Dish you love.
Poor slighted Wit is flung among the Swine,
Like Grapes in France, now you forbid their Wine.
Play-Houses like forsaken Barns are grown,
The lusty Threshers of both ends of Town.
Let the Corn rot, and give their Labour o're,
And so the Vizards cackle here no more:
Or if they hither come 'tis but for fear,
Lest zealous Constables find 'em elsewhere,
And their torn Coats for Romish Reliques seize,
And the poor Girles for Painted Images.
Thus all your Pleasures wither and decay,
You 've suck'd the Globe, and flung the shell away.
As for our wretched selves we are forc'd still,
To chaw down Poetry against our will,
But little Pleasure it to us does give,
We swallow it as Sick-Men eat, to live.
And to preserve your Stomacks we make bold,
To Cram you every day with New or Old.
To day we bring old gather'd Herbs, 'tis true,
But such as in sweet Shakespears Garden grew.
And all his Plants immortal you esteem,
Your Mouthes are never out of taste with him.
Howe're to make your Appetites more keen,
Not only oyly Words are sprinkled in;
But what to please you gives us better hope,
A little Vineger against the Pope.
| Henry the Sixth, The First part | |