ome for lords, knights, 'squires;
Some for your waiting-wench, and city-wires;
Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars.

Nor is it, only, while you keep your seat
Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat
A week at ord'naries, on his broken meat:
If his muse be true,
Who commends her to you.

ANOTHER.

The ends of all, who for the scene do write,
Are, or should be, to profit and delight.
And still't hath been the praise of all best times,
So persons were not touch'd, to tax the crimes.
Then, in this play, which we present to-night,
And make the object of your ear and sight,
On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true:
Lest so you make the maker to judge you,
For he knows, poet never credit gain'd
By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feign'd.
If any yet will, with particular sleight
Of application, wrest what he doth write;
And that he meant, or him, or her, will say:
They make a libel, which he made a play.

ACT 1.

SCENE 1.1.

A ROOM IN CLERIMONT'S HOUSE.

ENTER CLERIMONT, MAKING HIMSELF READY, FOLLOWED BY HIS PAGE.

CLER: Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?

PAGE: Yes, sir.

CLER: Let me hear it.

PAGE: You shall, sir, but i'faith let nobody else.

CLER: Why, I pray?

PAGE: It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir;
besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of,
whose lady is the argument of it; where now I am the welcomest
thing under a man that comes there.

CLER: I think, and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out
of you.

PAGE: No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with
me, and throw me on the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she
kisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a peruke on my head; and
asks me an I will wear her gown? and I say, no: and then she
hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent! and lets me go.

CLER: No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when
the entrance is so easy to you--well sir, you shall go there no
more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a
fortnight hence. Sing, sir.

PAGE [SINGS]: Still to be neat, still to be drest--

[ENTER TRUEWIT.]

TRUE: Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and never
feels it! What between his mistress abroad, and