THE PROLOGUE.

The wreath of pleasure and delicious sweets,
Begirt the gentle front of this fair troop!
Select and most respected auditors,
For wit’s sake do not dream of miracles.
Alas! we shall but falter, if you lay
The least sad weight of an unusèd hope
Upon our weakness; only we give up
The worthless present of slight idleness
To your authentic censure. O! that our Muse
Had those abstruse and sinewy faculties, 10
That, with a strain of fresh invention,
She might press out the rarity of Art;
The pur’st elixèd juice of rich conceit
In your attentive ears; that with the lip
Of gracious elocution we might drink
A sound carouse into your health of wit.
But O! the heavy [51] dryness of her brain,
Foil to your fertile spirits, is asham’d
To breathe her blushing numbers to such ears.
Yet (most ingenious) deign to veil our wants; 20
With sleek acceptance polish these rude scenes;
And if our slightness your large hope beguiles,
Check not with bended brow, but dimpled smiles.

[Exit Prologue.

[51] So ed. 1633.—Ed. 1602 “heathy.”