Home-bred mirth our Muse doth sing;
The satyr's tooth and waspish sting,
Which most do hurt, when least suspected,
By this play are not affected.
But if conceit with quick-turn'd scenes,
Observing all those ancient streams,
Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow,[320]
As time, place, person: and to show
Things never done with that true life,
That thoughts and wits should stand at strife.
Whether the things now shown be true,
Or whether we ourselves now do
The tilings we but present: if these,
Free from the loathsome stage disease,
(So overworn, so tir'd and stale,
Not satirising but to rail)
May win your favours, and inherit
But calm acceptance for his merit:
He vows by Paper, Pen, and Ink,
And by the learned Sisters' drink,
To spend his time, his lamps, his oil,
And never cease his brain to toil,
Till from the silent hours of night
He doth produce for your delight
Conceits so new, so harmless free,
That Puritans themselves may see
A play, yet not in public preach,
That players such lewd doctrine teach,
That their pure joints do quake and tremble,
When they do see a man resemble
The picture of a villain: this,
As he a friend to Muses is,
To you by me he gives his word;
Is all his play doth now afford.