Prologue

A strange play you are like to have, for know,

We use no drum, nor trumpet, nor dumb show;

No combat, marriage, not so much to-day

As song, dance, masque, to bombast out a play;

Yet these all good, and still in frequent use

With our best poets; nor is this excuse

Made by our author, as if want of skill

Caused this defect; it’s rather his self will.

Will you the reason know? There have so many

Been in that kind, that he desires not any

At this time in his scene, no help, no strain,

Or flash that’s borrowed from another’s brain;

Nor speaks he this that he would have you fear it,

He only tries if once bare lines will bear it:

Yet may’t afford, so please you silent sit,

Some mirth, some matter, and perhaps some wit.