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TIS ten to one, this Play can never please All that are bere: fome come to take their ease,

And fleep an act or two; but those we fear,
We've frighted with our trumpets: fo 'tis clear,
They'll fay, it's naught. Others, to hear the city
Abus'd extremely, and to cry, That's witty!
Which we have not done neither; that, I fear,
All the expected Good w'are like to hear
For this Play at this time, is only in
The merciful conftruction of good wom'n;
(For fuch a one we fhew'd'em) If they fmile,
And fay, 'twill do; I know within a while
All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,
If they hold, when their ladies bid 'em clap.

The End of the Fifth Volume.



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