The workes of Beniamin Ionson

EPISCOENE, OR The silent Woman. PROLOGVE.

TRuth sayes, of old, the art of making plaies Was to content the people; & their praise Was to the Poet money, wine, and bayes. But in this age, a sect of writers are, That, onely, for particular likings care, And will taste nothing that is populare. With such we mingle neither braines, nor brests; Our wishes, like to those (make publique feasts) Are not to please the cookes tastes, but the guests. Yet, if those cunning palates hether come, They shall find guests entreaty, and good roome; And though all relish not, sure, there will be some, That, when they leaue their seates, shall make 'hem say, Who wrot that piece, could so haue wroten a play: But that, he knew, this was the better way. For, to present all custard, or all tart, And haue no other meats, to beare a part, Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art. The Poet prayes you then, with better thought To sit; and, when his cares are all in brought, Though there be none far fet, there will deare-bought Be sit for ladies: some for lords, knights, squires, Some for your waiting wench, and citie-wires, Some for your men, and daughters of White-Friars.

Nor is it, onely, while you keepe your seate Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eate A weeke at ord'naries, on his broken meat: If his Muse be true, Who commends her to you.