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TO THE KING AND QUEEN.
The Author, royal sir, so dreads this night, As if for writing he were doom'd to th' sight; Or else, unless you do protect his fame, Y' had sav'd his play, and sentenc'd him to th' flame. For though your name or power were i' th' reprieve, Such works, he thinks, are but condemn'd to live. Which for this place, being rescu'd from the fire, Take ruin from th' advancement, and fall higher. Though none, he hopes, sit here upon his wit, As if he poems did, or plays commit; Yet he must needs fear censure that fears praise, Nor would write still, were't to succeed i' th' bays: For he is not o' th' trade, nor would excel In this kind, where 'tis lightness to do well. Yet, as the gods refin'd base things, and some Beasts foul i' th' herd grew pure i' th' hecatomb; And as the ox prepar'd and crowned bull Are offerings, though kept back, and altars full; So, mighty sir, this sacrifice being near The knife at Oxford, which y' have kindled here, He hopes 'twill from you and the Queen grow clean, And turn t' oblation, what he meant a scene.
THE AT BLACKFRIARS.
Were it his trade, the Author bid me say, Perchance he'd beg you would be good to th' play; And I, to set him up in reputation, Should hold a basin forth for approbation. But praise so gain'd, he thinks, were a relief Able to make his comedy a brief; For where your pity, must your judgment be, 'Tis not a play, but you fir'd houses see. Look not his quill, then, should petitions run; No gatherings here into a Prologue spun. Whether their sold scenes be dislik'd, or hit, Are cares for them who eat by th' stage and wit. He's one whose unbought Muse did never fear An empty second day or a thin share; But can make th' actors, though you come not twice, No losers, since we act now at the king's price, Who hath made this play public; and the same Power that makes laws redeem'd this from the flame: For th' Author builds no fame, nor doth aspire To praise from that which he condemn'd to th' fire. He's thus secure then, that he cannot win A censure sharper than his own hath been.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
THE CITY-MATCH.
+Sea.+ I promise you 'twill be a most rare plot.
+Ware.+ The city, Master Seathrift, never yet Brought forth the like: I would have them that have Fin'd twice for sheriff, mend it.
+Sea.+ Mend it! why, 'Tis past the wit o' th' court of aldermen. Next merchant-tailor, that writes chronicles, Will put us in.
+Sea.+ You told me, Master Warehouse.
+Ware.+ Not the sea, When it devour'd my ships, cost me so much As did his vanities. A voyage to the Indies Has been lost in a night: his daily suits Were worth more than the stock that set me up; For which he knew none but the silk-man's book, And studied that more than the law. He had His loves, too, and his mistresses; was enter'd Among the philosophical madams; was As great with them as their concerners; and, I hear, Kept one of them in pension.
+Sea.+ My son too Hath had his errors: I could tell the time When all the wine which I put off by wholesale He took again in quarts; and at the day Vintners have paid me with his large scores: but He is reformed too.
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