University of Virginia Library

THE PROLOGUE.

Who cou'd expect such crowding here to day,
Meerly on the report of a new Play?
A man wou'd think y'ave been so often bit
By us of late, you shou'd have learn'd more wit,
And first have sent a Forlorne-hope to spy
The Plot and Language of our Comedy,
Expecting till some desp'rate Critticks had
Resolv'd you whether it were good or bad:
But yet we hope you'l never grow so wise;
For if you shou'd, we and our Comedies
Must trip to Norwich, or for Ireland go,
And never fix, but, like a Puppit-show,
Remove from Town to Town, from Fair to Fair,
Seeking fit Chapmen to put off our Ware.
For such our Fortune is this barren Age,
That Faction now, not Wit, supports the Stage:
Wit has, like Painting, had her happy flights,
And in peculiar Ages reach'd her heights,
Though now declin'd; yet cou'd some able Pen
Match Fletcher's Nature, or the Art of Ben,
The Old and Graver sort wou'd scarce allow
Those Plays were good, because we writ them now.
Our Author therefore begs you wou'd forget,
Most Reverend Judges, the Records of Wit,
And only think upon the modern way
Of writing, whilst y'are Censuring his Play.
And Gallants, as for you, talk loud i'th'Pit,
Divert your selves and Friends with your own Wit;
Observe the Ladies, and neglect the Play;
Or else 'tis fear'd we are undone to day.