EPILOGUE
And how, and how, in faith—a pretty plot;
And smartly carried through too, was it not?
And the devils, how? well; and the fighting?
Well too; a fool, and't had been just old writing.
O, what a monster-wit must that man have,5
That could please all which now their twelvepence gave!
High characters (cries one); and he would see
Things that ne'er were, nor are, nor ne'er will be.
Romances, cries easy souls; and then they swear
The play's well writ, though scarce a good line's there.10
The women—O, if Stephen should be kill'd,
Or miss the lady, how the plot is spill'd!
And into how many pieces a poor play
Is taken still before the second day,
Like a strange beauty newly come to court!15
And, to say truth, good faith, 'tis all the sport.
One will like all the ill things in a play,
Another some o' th' good, but the wrong way;
So that from one poor play there comes t'arise
At several tables several comedies.20
The ill is only here, that 't may fall out
In plays as faces; and who goes about
To take asunder, oft destroys (we know)
What altogether made a pretty show.
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