PROLOGUS.
Judicious friends, if what shall here be seen
May taste your sense, or ope your tickled spleen,
Our author has his wish: he does not mean
To rub your galls with a satiric scene;
Nor toil your brains, to find the fustian sense
Of those poor lines that cannot recompense
The pains of study: Comedy's soft strain
Should not perplex, but recreate the brain;
His strain is such, he hopes it, but refers
That to the test of your judicious ears.
THE HEIR.
ACT I.
Enter Polymetes, Roscio.
Pol. Roscio,
Ros. My lord.
Pol. Hast thou divulg'd the news,
That my son died at Athens?