P R O L O G U E
THE Devil is an Ass: That is, to day,
The Name of what you are met for, a new Play.
Yet, Grandee's, would you were not come to grace
Our matter, with allowing us no place.
Though you presume, Satan, a subtle thing,
And may have heard he's worn in a thumb-ring;
Do not on these Presumptions, force us act,
In compass of a Cheese-trencher. This tract
VVill ne're admit our Vice, because of yours.
Anon, who worse than you, the fault endures.
That your selves make? when you will thrust and spurn,
And knock us o' the Elbows; and bid, turn;
As if, when we had spoke, we must be gone,
Or, till we speak, must all run in, to one,
Like the young Adders, at the old ones mouth?
Would we could stand due North; or had no South,
If that offend: or were Muscovy Glass,
That you might look our Scenes through as they pass.
We know not how to affect you. If you'll come
To see new Plays, pray you afford us room,
And shew this but the same face you have done
Your dear delight, the Devil of Edmunton.
Or, if, for want of room it must miscarry,
'Twill be but Justice that your Censure tarry,
Till you give some. And when six times you ha' seen't,
If this Play do not like, the Devil is in't.