Inspice ludorum sumptus, Auguste, tuorum: Empta tibi magno talia multa leges. Hæc tu spectasti, spectandaque sæpe dedisti. Majestas adeo comis ubique tua est. So highly were they respected in the most flourishing estate of the Roman Empire; and if they have been vilified of late by any separistical humorist (as in the now questioned _Histrio-Mastix_),[3.01] I hope by the next term (Minerva assistente) to give such satisfaction to the world, by vindicating many particulars in that work maliciously exploded and condemned, as that no gentleman of quality and judgment but shall therein receive a reasonable satisfaction. I am loth by tediousness to grow troublesome, therefore conclude with a grateful remembrance of my service, intermixed with myriads of zealous wishes for your health of body and peace of mind, with superabundance of earth’s blessings and Heaven’s graces, ever remaining, Yours most observant, Thomas Heywood. TO THE READER. If, Reader, thou hast of this play been an auditor, there is less apology to be used by entreating thy patience. This tragi-comedy (being one reserved amongst two hundred and twenty in which I have had either an entire hand, or at the least a main finger) coming accidentally to the press, and I having intelligence thereof, thought it not fit that it should pass as _filius populi_, a bastard without a father to acknowledge it. True it is, that my plays are not exposed unto the world in volumes, to bear the title of works, (as others); one reason is, that many of them by shifting and change of companies have been negligently lost; others of them are still retained in the hands of some actors, who think it against their peculiar profit to have them come in print; and a third, that it never was any great ambition in me, to be in this kind voluminously read. All that I have further to say at this time is only this: censure[3.02] I entreat as favourably as it is exposed to thy view freely. Ever Studious of thy pleasure and profit, Thomas Heywood. PROLOGUE. A strange play you are like to have, for know, We use no drum, nor trumpet, nor dumb show; No combat, marriage, not so much to-day As song, dance, masque, to bombast out a play; Yet these all good, and still in frequent use With our best poets; nor is this excuse Made by our author, as if want of skill Caused this defect; it’s rather his self will. Will you the reason know? There have so many Been in that kind, that he desires not any At this time in his scene, no help, no strain, Or flash that’s borrowed from another’s brain; Nor speaks he this that he would have you fear it, He only tries if once bare lines will bear it: Yet may’t afford, so please you silent sit, Some mirth, some matter, and perhaps some wit. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Two young Gentlemen: Geraldine, Delavil, Old Wincott.