Jun. The elder and the nobler: I'll give place, Sir.
Swet. Ye shew a friends soul.
March on, and through the Camp in every tongue,
The Virtues of great Caratach be sung. [Exeunt.
The Knight of the Burning Pestle.
To the Readers of this COMEDY.
Gentlemen, the World is so nice in these our times, that for Apparel, there is no fashion, For Musick, which is a rare Art, (though now slighted) No Instrument; For Diet, none but the French Kickshoes that are delicate; and for Plaies, no invention but that which now runneth an invective way, touching some particular persons, or else it is contemned before it is throughly understood. This is all that I have to say, That the Author had no intent to wrong any one in this Comedy, but as a merry passage, here and there interlaced it with delight, which he hopes will please all, and be hurtful to none.