[Exeunt.
Prologue.
To tell ye (Gentlemen,) we have a Play,
A new one too, and that 'tis launch'd to day,
The Name ye know, that's nothing to my Story;
To tell ye, 'tis familiar, void of Glory,
Of State, of Bitterness: of wit you'll say,
For that is now held wit, that tends that way,
Which we avoid: To tell ye too 'tis merry,
And meant to make ye pleasant, and not weary:
The Stream that guides ye, easie to attend:
To tell ye that 'tis good, is to no end,
If you believe not. Nay, to goe thus far,
To swear it, if you swear against, is war.
To assure you any thing, unless you see,
And so conceive, is vanity in me;
Therefore I leave it to it self, and pray
Like a good Bark, it may work out to day,
And stem all doubts; 'twas built for such a proof,
And we hope highly: if she lye aloof
For her own vantage, to give wind at will,
Why let her work, only be you but still,
And sweet opinion'd, and we are bound to say,
You are worthy Judges, and you crown the Play.
Epilogue.
The Play is done, yet our Suit never ends,
Still when you part, you would still part our friends,
Our noblest friends; if ought have faln amiss,
O let it be sufficient, that it is,
And you have pardon'd it. In Buildings great
All the whole Body cannot be so neat,
But something may be mended; Those are fair,
And worthy love, that may destroy, but spare.
APPENDIX
Ad Janum