Poems and translations with the Sophy / written by the Honourable Sir John Denham, Knight of the Bath.

The Prologue.

HIther ye come, dislike, and so undo The Players, and disgrace the Poet too; But he protests against your votes, and swears He'll not be try'd by any, but his Peers; He claims his priviledge, and sayes 'tis fit Nothing should be the Iudge of wit, but Wit. Now you will all be Wits, and be I pray; And you that discommend it, mend the Play: 'Tis the best satisfaction, he knows then His turn will come, to laugh at you agen. But Gentlemen, if ye dislike the Play, Pray make no words on't till the second day, Or third be past: For we would have you know it, The loss will fall on us, not on the Poet: For he writes not for money, nor for praise, Nor to be call'd a Wit, nor to wear Bayes: Cares not for frowns or smiles: so now you'll say, Then (why the Devil) did he write a Play? He says, 'twas then with him, as now with you, He did it when he had nothing else to do.