Troth Gentlemen, you must vouchsafe awhile T'excuse my Mirth; I cannot chuse but smile! And 'tis to thinke, how like a subtle Spie, Our Poet waits, to heare his destinie: Just i'th pay'd-Entry as you passe; the place Where first you mention your dislike, or grace. Pray whisper softly, that he may not heare; Or else, such words, as shall not blast his Eare.
