Venice preserv'd, or, A plot discover'd a tragedy as it is acted at the Duke's Theatre / written by Thomas Otway.

PROLOGUE.

IN these distructed times, when each man dr••ds The bloudy stratagems of busie heads; When we have fear'd three years we know not what, Till Witnesses begin to die o' th' rot, What made our Poet meddle with a Plot? Was't that he fansy'd, for the very sake And name of Plot, his trifling Play might take? For there's not in't one Inch-board Evidence, But 'tis, he says, to reason plain and sense, And that he thinks a plausible defence. Were Truth by Sense and Reason to be tri'd, Sure all our Swearers might be laid aside: No, of such Tools our Author has no need, To make his Plot, or may his Play succeed; He, of black Bills, has no prodigious Tales, Or Spanish Pilgrims cast a-shore in Wales; Here's not one murther'd Magistrate at least, Kept rank like Ven'son for a City feast, Grown four days stiff, the better to prepare And fit his plyant limbs to ride in Chair: Yet here's an Army rai••d, though under ground, But no man seen, nor one Commission found; Here is a Traitour too, that's very old, Turbulent, subtle, mischievous and bold, Bloudy, revengefull, and to crown his part, Loves fumbling with a Wench, with all his heart; Till after having many changes pass'd, In spight of Age (thanks Heaven) is hang'd at last: Next is a Senatour that keeps a Whore, In Venice none a higher office bore; To lewdness every night the Letcher ran, Shew me, all London, such another man, Match him at Mother Creswolds if you can. Oh Poland, Poland I had it been thy lot, T'have heard in time of this Venetian Plot, Thou surely chosen hadst one King from thence, And honour'd them as thou hast England since.