THE PROLOGUE.
 I come no more to make you laugh; things now |
| That bear a weighty and a serious brow, |
| Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, |
| Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, |
| We now present. Those that can pity here |
| May, if they think it well, let fall a tear: |
| The subject will deserve it. Such as give |
| Their money out of hope they may believe |
| May here find truth too. Those that come to see |
| Only a show or two, and so agree |
| The play may pass, if they be still and willing, |
| I'll undertake may see away their shilling |
| Richly in two short hours. Only they |
| That come to hear a merry bawdy play, |
| A noise of targets, or to see a fellow |
| In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, |
| Will be deceiv'd; for, gentle hearers, know, |
| To rank our chosen truth with such a show |
| As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting |
| Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring |
| To make that only true we now intend, |
| Will leave us never an understanding friend. |
| Therefore, for goodness sake, and as you are known |
| The first and happiest hearers of the town, |
| Be sad, as we would make ye. Think ye see |
| The very persons of our noble story |
| As they were living; think you see them great, |
| And follow'd with the general throng and sweat |
| Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see |
| How soon this mightiness meets misery. |
| And if you can be merry then, I'll say |
| A man may weep upon his wedding-day. |
