Our poet bid us say, for his own part,
He cannot lay too much forth of his art,
But fears our overacting passions may,
As not adorn, deface his labour’d play:
Yet still he is resolute for what is writ
Of nicer valour, and assumes the wit.
But for the love-scenes, which he ever meant
Cupid in’s petticoat should represent,
He’ll stand no shock of censure; the play’s good,
He says he knows it, if well understood.
But we, blind god, beg, if thou art divine,
Thou’lt shoot thy arrows round, this play was thine.