_Omnes._ We your subjects. _Mart. Devitry_, for your service, be near us, Whip out these instruments of this mad mother From Court, and all good people; and because She was born Noble, let that Title find her A private grave, but neither tongue nor honor: And now lead on, they that shall read this story, Shall find that Virtue lives in Good, not Glory. [_Exeunt Omnes._ The Woman-Hater. PROLOGUE. _Gentlemen, Inductions are out of date, and a Prologue in Verse, is as stale as a black Velvet Cloak, and a Bay Garland: therefore you shall have it plain Prose, thus: If there be any amongst you, that come to hear lascivious Scenes, let them depart: for I do pronounce this, to the utter discomfort of all twopenny Gallery men, you shall have no bawdery in it: or if there be any lurking amongst you in corners, with Table-books, who have some hope to find fit matter to feed his ---- ---- malice on, let them claspe them up, and slink away, or stay and be converted. For he that made this Play, means to please Auditors so, as he may be an Auditor himself hereafter, and not purchase them with the dear [losse] of his [e]ares: I dare not call it_ Comedy _or_ Tragedy; _'tis perfectly neither: A Play it is, which was meant to make you_ _laugh, how it [will] please you, is not written in my Part: for_ _though you should like it to day, perhaps your selves know not how you should digest it to morrow: Some things in it you may meet with, which are out of the common road: a Duke there is, and the Scæne lies in Italy, as those two things lightly we never miss. But you shall not find in it the ordinary and over-worn Trade of jesting at Lords and Courtiers, and Citizens, without taxation of any particular or new vice by them found out, but at the persons of them; such, he, that made this, thinks vile, and for his own part vows; That he did never think, but that a [Lord] born might be a wise man, and a Courtier an honest man._ _Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter Duke of_ Millain, Arrigo, Lucio, _and two Courtiers_. Tis now the sweetest time for sleep, the night is scarce spent; _Arrigo_, what's a clock? _Arri._ Past four. _Duke._ Is it so much, and yet the morn not up? See yonder where the shamefac'd Maiden comes Into our sight, how gently doth she slide, Hiding her chaste cheeks, like a modest Bride, With a red veil of blushes; as [is] she, Even such all modest virtuous Women be. Why thinks your Lordship I am up so soon? _Lucio._ About some weighty State plot. _Duke._ And what thinks your knighthood of it? _Arr._ I do think to cure some strange corruptions in the Common-wealth.