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The stubborne
author of the trifle crime,
That just now cheated you
of two hours' time,
Presumptuous it lik't him, began
to grow
Carelesse, whether it pleased you or no.
But we who ground th' excellence of a play
On
what the women at the dores wil say,
Who judge it by
the benches, and afford
To take your money, ere his
oath or word
His SCHOLLARS school'd, sayd if he had
been wise
He should have wove in one two COMEDIES;
The first for th' gallery, in which the throne
To
their amazement should descend alone,
The
rosin-lightning flash, and monster spire
Squibs, and
words hotter then his fire.
Th' other for the
gentlemen oth' pit,
Like to themselves, all spirit,
fancy, wit,
In which plots should be subtile as a
flame,
Disguises would make PROTEUS stil the same:
Humours so rarely humour'd and exprest,
That ev'n
they should thinke 'em so, not drest;
Vices acted and
applauded too, times
Tickled, and th' actors acted,
not their crimes,
So he might equally applause have
gain'd
Of th' hardned, sooty, and the snowy hand.
Where now one SO SO spatters, t'other: no!
Tis
his first play; twere solecisme 'tshould goe;
The
next 't show'd pritily, but searcht within
It
appeares bare and bald, as is his chin;
The towne-wit
sentences: A SCHOLARS PLAY!
Pish! I know not why, but
th'ave not the way.
We, whose gaine is all our
pleasure, ev'n these
Are bound by justice and
religion to please;
Which he, whose pleasure's all
his gaine, goes by
As slightly, as they doe his
comaedy.
Culls out the few, the worthy, at whose
feet
He sacrifices both himselfe and it,
His
fancies first fruits: profit he knowes none,
Unles
that of your approbation,
Which if your thoughts at
going out will pay,
Hee'l not looke farther for a
second day.
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