PrologueLadies to you, in whose defence and right,
Fletchers brave Muse prepar'd her self to fight
A battaile without blood, 'twas well fought too,
(The victory's yours, though got with much ado.)
We do present this Comedy, in which
A rivulet of pure wit flowes, strong and rich
In Fancy, Language, and all parts that may
Adde grace and ornament to a merry Play.
Which this may prove. Yet not to go too far
In promises from this our female war,
We do intreat the angry men would not
Expect the mazes of a subtle plot,
Set Speeches, high expressions; and what's worse,
in a true Comedy, politique discourse.
The end we ayme at, is to make you sport;
Yet neither gall the City, nor the Court.
Heare, and observe his Comique straine and when
Y'are sick of melancholy, see't agen.
'Tis no deere Physick, since 'twill quit the cost:
Or his intentions, with our pains, are lost.