(=D=) THE | WOMAN | HATER, | OR THE | Hungry Courtier. | A COMEDY, | _As it hath been Acted by his Majesties | Servants with great_ _Applause._ | Written by | FRANCIS BEAMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER. Gent. | _LONDON_, | Printed for _Humphrey Moseley_, and are to be sold at | his Shop at the _Princes Armes_ in St. _Pauls_ | Church-yard. 1649. The Prologue to the _Woman-hater_, or the _Hungry Courtier_. _Ladies take't as a secret in your Eare,_ _In stead of homage, and kind welcome here,_ _I heartily could wish you all were gone;_ _For if you stay, good faith, we are undone._ _Alas! you now expect, the usuall wayes_ _Of our addresse, which is your Sexes praise:_ _But we to night, unluckily must speake,_ _Such things will make your Lovers-Heart-strings breake,_ _Bely your Virtues, and your beauties staine,_ _With words, contriv'd long since, in your disdaine._ _'Tis strange you stirre not yet; not all this while_ _Lift up your Fannes to hide a scornefull smile:_ _Whisper, or jog your Lords to steale away;_ _So leave us t'act, unto our selves, our Play:_ _Then sure, there may be hope, you can subdue_ _Your patience to endure an Act or two:_ _Nay more, when you are told our Poets rage_ _Pursues but one example, which that age_ _Wherein he liv'd produc'd; and we rely_ _Not on the truth, but the varietie._ _His Muse beleev'd not, what she then did write;_ _Her Wings were wont to make a nobler flight;_ _Sor'd high, and to the Stars, your Sex did raise;_ _For which, full Twenty yeares, he wore the Bayes._ _'Twas he reduced_ Evandra _from her scorne,_ _And taught the sad_ Aspacia _how to mourne;_ _Gave_ Arethusa's _love a glad reliefe._ _And made_ Panthea _elegant in griefe._ _If those great Trophies of his noble Muse,_ _Cannot one humor 'gainst your Sex excuse_ _Which we present to night; you'l finde a way_ _How to make good the Libell in our Play:_ _So you are cruell to your selves; whilst he_ _(Safe in the fame of his integritie)_ _Will be a Prophet, not a Poet thought;_ _And this fine Web last long though loosely wrought_. The Epilogue to the _Woman-hater_, or the _Hungry Courtier_. _The monuments of Vertue and desert,_ _Appeare more goodly when the glosse of Art_ _Is eaten off by time, then when at first:_ _They were set up, not censur'd at the worst_ _We have done our best for your contents to fit,_ _With new paines, this old monument of wit._ _Dramatis Personæ_,