We need not tell you Gallants, that this night
The Wits have jumpt, or that the Scenes hit right
’Twould be but labor lost for to excuse
What Fletcher had to do in: his brisk Muse
Was so Mercurial, that if he but writ
An Act, or two, the whole Play rose up wit.
We’ll not appeal unto those Gentlemen
Judge by their Cloaths, if they sit right, nor when
The Ladies smile, and with their Fanns delight
To whisk a clinch aside, then all goes right:
’Twas well receiv’d before, and we dare say,
You now are welcome to no vulgar Play.