THE PROLOGUE AT THE FRIARS.
Ere we begin, that no man may repent
Two shillings and his time, the Author sent
The prologue with the errors of his play,
That, who will, may take his money and away.
First for the plot, it's no way intricate
By cross deceits in love, nor so high in state,
That we might have given out in our playbill,
This day's "The Prince," writ by Nick Machiavil.
The language too is easy, such as fell
Unstudied from his pen: not like a spell
Big with mysterious words, such as enchant
The half-witted, and confound the ignorant.
Then what must needs afflict the amorist,
No virgin here in breeches casts a mist
Before her lover's eyes: no ladies tell,
How their blood boils, how high their veins do swell.
But, what is worse, no bawdy mirth is here
(The wit of bottle-ale and double-beer),
To make the wife of citizen protest,
And country-justice swear 'twas a good jest.
Now, sirs, you have the errors of his wit:
Like or dislike, at your own perils be't.
Two shillings and his time, the Author sent
The prologue with the errors of his play,
That, who will, may take his money and away.
First for the plot, it's no way intricate
By cross deceits in love, nor so high in state,
That we might have given out in our playbill,
This day's "The Prince," writ by Nick Machiavil.
The language too is easy, such as fell
Unstudied from his pen: not like a spell
Big with mysterious words, such as enchant
The half-witted, and confound the ignorant.
Then what must needs afflict the amorist,
No virgin here in breeches casts a mist
Before her lover's eyes: no ladies tell,
How their blood boils, how high their veins do swell.
But, what is worse, no bawdy mirth is here
(The wit of bottle-ale and double-beer),
To make the wife of citizen protest,
And country-justice swear 'twas a good jest.
Now, sirs, you have the errors of his wit:
Like or dislike, at your own perils be't.