Two Comedies [antikvár]

PROLOGUE * Now luck God send us, and a little wit Will serve to make our play hit; According to the palates of the season, Here is rhyme nőt empty of reason. This we were bid to credit from our poet, Whose true scope, if you would know it, In all his poems still hath been this measure, To mix profit with your pleasure;* And nőt as somé,* whose throats their envy failing, Cry hoarsely, all he writes is railing;* IAnd when his plays come forth, think they can flout them With saying he was a year about them. I To these there needs no lie bút this his creature, Which was two months since no feature. I And though he dares give them five lives to mend it, 'Tis known, five weeks fully penned it, [ From his own hand, without a coadjutor, Novice, journeyman, or tutor.* | Yet thus much I can give you as a tokén Of his play's worth: no eggs are broken, Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted,* Wherewith your rout are so delighted; INor hales he in a gull, old ends reciting, Tó stop gaps in his loose writing; With such a deal of monstrous and forced action, As might make Bedlam a faction.* Nor made he his play fór jests stol'n from each table, Bút makes jests to fit his fable;