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. FOOTNOTES: [320] [Hippocrene.] RAM-ALLEY[321]; OR, MERRY TRICKS. ACTUS I, SCÆNA 1. _Enter_ CONSTANTIA _sola, with a letter in her hand_. CON. In this disguise, ere scarce my mourning robes Could have a general note, I have forsook My shape, my mother, and those rich demesnes, Of which I am sole heir; and now resolve In this disguise of page to follow him, Whose love first caus'd me to assume this shape. Lord, how my feminine blood stirs at the sight Of these same breeches! methinks this codpiece[322] Should betray me: well, I will try the worst. Hither they say he usually doth come, Whom I so much affect: what makes he here? In the skirts of Holborn, so near the field, And at a garden-house? he has some punk Upon my life! No more: here he comes. _Enter_ BOUTCHER. God save you, sir: your name, unless I err, Is Master Thomas Boutcher. BOUT. 'Tis, sweet boy. CON. I have a letter for you. [CONSTANTIA _delivers the letter; he reads it_. BOUT. From whom is't? CON. The inside, sir, will tell you; I shall see What love he bears me now. [_Aside._ BOUT. Th' art welcome, boy. How does the fair Constantia Sommerfield, Thy[323] noble mistress? CON. I left her in health. BOUT. She gives thee here good words; and for her sake Thou shalt not want a master: be mine for ever. CON. I thank you, sir. Now shall I see the punk.