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Prologue.

Almighty Critiques! whom our Indians here
Worship, just as they do the Devil, for fear.
In reverence to your pow'r I come this day
To give you timely warning of our Play.
The Scenes are old, the Habits are the same,
We wore last year, before the Spaniards came.
Our Prologue, th'old-cast too—
For to observe the new it should at least
Be spoke, by some ingenious Bird or Beast.
Now if you stay, the blood that shall be shed
From this poor Play, be all upon your head.
We neither promise you one Dance, or Show,
Then Plot and Language they are wanting too:
But you, kind Wits, will those light faults excuse:
Those are the common frailties of the Muse;
Which who observes he buyes his place too dear:
For 'tis your business to be couz'ned here.
These wretched spies of wit must then confess
They take more pains to please themselves the less.
Grant us such Judges, Phœbus we request,
As still mistake themselves into a jest;
Such easie Judges, that our Poet may
Himself admire the fortune of his Play.
And arrogantly, as his fellows do,
Think he writes well, because he pleases you.
This he conceives not hard to bring about
If all of you would join to help him out.
Would each man take but what he understands,
And leave the rest upon the Poets hands.
previous section The Indian Emperour, or, the Conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards
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