And durst not disoblige you now with wit.
But, gentlemen, you over-do the mode;
You must have fools out of the common road.
Th' unnatural strained buffoon is only taking;
No fop can please you now of God's own making.
Pardon our poet, if he speaks his mind;
You come to plays with your own follies lined:
Small fools fall on you, like small showers, in vain;
Your own oiled coats keep out all common rain.
You must have Mamamouchi[1], such a fop