The twelfth apartment bears the lords of Spain;
Whence I conclude, it is your author's lot,
To be endangered by a Spanish plot.
_Prolo_. Our poet yet protection hopes from you,
But bribes you not with any thing that's new;
Nature is old, which poets imitate,
And, for wit, those, that boast their own estate,
Forget Fletcher and Ben before them went,
Their elder brothers, and that vastly spent;
So much, 'twill hardly be repair'd again,
Not, though supplied with all the wealth of Spain,
This play is English, and the growth your own;
As such, it yields to English plays alone.
He could have wish'd it better for your sakes,
But that, in plays, he finds you love mistakes:
Besides, he thought it was in vain to mend,
What you are bound in honour to defend;
That English wit, howe'er despised by some,
Like English valour, still may overcome.




PROLOGUE,

WHEN REVIVED.


As some raw squire, by tender mother bred,
'Till one-and-twenty keeps his maidenhead;