A royal arbor of loyal poesie consisting of poems and songs digested into triumph, elegy, satyr, love & drollery
Jordan, Thomas, 1612?-1685?

A Prologue to a Play of mine, call'd, Love hath found his eyes; or Distractions.

I Know ye did expect me, but for what,
To say we have a Play, the Bills shew that;
Why let's begin then, Sound—But some will say
Are there no faults in th' Actors, or the Play
To beg your patience for? Yes faith, there's store,
Yet all we crave is you'l not make 'em more.
A very just petition, and 'tis it
I think, we bear no more then we commit;
Page  18 Yet there are some, wise judges, that do seek
To raise their laughter on what you dislike:
The errors of the Actors, and they be
The witty tribe of our own Quality;
Why let them laugh, they paid for't, why should we
Deprive a man of that felicity,
That cannot help nor hurt us; and I pray
How e're it prove, don't call't a Pretty Play:
Let it be good or bad, that slight word pritty
Shews the Play naught, and the depraver witty.
The language is but low, and the invention
No higher then a common apprehension,
And (in a word) the Authours wish is such
You'l not despair, nor yet expect too much.