'TIS ten to one, this Play can never pleafe All that are here: fome come to take their
And sleep an act or two;
We've frighted with our
They'll fay, it's naught.
but those we fear, trumpets: fo 'tis clear, 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 bold, when their ladies bid 'em clap.
The End of the Fifth Volume.