Classic Poem

Troth, gentlemen, I know not what to say,
Now I am here; but you shall have a play: —
I hope there are none met but friends; if you
Be pleas'd to hear me first, I'll tell you true,
I do not like the Prologue, 'tis not smart,
Not airy, then the Play's not worth a —
What witty Prologues have we heard! how keen
Upon the time, how tickling o' the spleen!
But that wit's gone, and we, in these sad days,
In coarse dull phlegm, must preface to cur plays.
I'll shew you what our author meant should be
His Prologue, — " Gentlemen, " — he shall pardonme,
I dare not speak a line, not that you need
To fear a satire in't, or wit, indeed.
He would have you believe no language good
And artful, but what's clearly understood;
And then he robs you of much mirth, that lies
I' the wonder, why you laugh at comedies.
He says the times are dangerous; who knows
What treason may be wrapt in giant prose,
Or swelling verse, at least to sense? Nay, then,
Have at you, master Poet: — Gentlemen,
Though he pretend fair, I dissemble not,
You're all betray'd here to a Spanish plot;
But do not you seem fearful, as you were
Shooting the bridge, let no man shift or stir,
I'll fetch you off, and two hours hence you may
(If not before) laugh at the plot and play.