Lew.  Is the King’s power contemn’d?

Mir.  No, but the torrent o’ your wilful folly stopp’d.  And for you, good Sir, if you would but be sensible, what can you wish, but the satisfaction of an obstinate will, that is not endear’d to you? rather than be cross’d in what you purpos’d, you’ll undo your Daughter’s fame, the credit of your judgment, and your old foolish Neighbour; make your Estates, and in a Suit not worth a Cardecue, a prey to Advocates, and their buckram Scribes, and after they have plum’d ye, return home like a couple of naked Fowles without a feather.

Char.  This is a most strong truth, Sir.

Mir.  No, no, Monsieur, let us be right Frenchmen, violent to charge; but when our follies are repell’d by reason, ’tis fit that we retreat, and ne’er come on more:  Observe my learned Charles, he’ll get thee a Nephew on Angellina shall dispute in her belly, and suck the Nurse by Logick:  and here’s Eustace, he was an Ass, but now is grown an Amadis; nor shall he want a Wife, if all my Land, for a Joynture, can effect:  Y’are a good Lord, and of a gentle nature, in your looks I see a kind consent, and it shews lovely:  and do you hear, old Fool? but I’le not chide, hereafter, like me, ever doat on Learning, the meer belief is excellent, ’twill save you; and next love Valour, though you dare not fight your self, or fright a foolish Officer, young Eustace can do it to a hair.  And, to conclude, let Andrew’s farm b’ encreas’d, that is your penance, you know for what, and see you rut no more; you understand me.  So embrace on all sides.

I’le pay those Bilmen, and make large amends, Provided we preserve you still our Friends—­ [Exeunt.

* * * * *

Prologue.

But that it would take from our modesty
To praise the Writer, or the Comedy,
Till your fair suffrage crown it, I should say,
Y’are all most welcome to no vulgar Play;
And so far w’are confident:  And if he
That made it, still lives in your memorie,
You will expect what we present to night,
Should be judged worthy of your ears and sight. 
You shall hear Fletcher in it, his true strain,
And neat expressions; living he did gain
Your good opinions; but now dead commends
This Orphan to the care of Noble Friends;
And may it raise in you content and mirth,
And be received for a legitimate birth. 
Your grace erects new Trophies to his fame,
And shall, to after-times, preserve his name.

Epilogue.

’Tis not the hands, or smiles, or common way
Of approbation to a well lik’d Play,
We only hope; but that you freely would
To th’ Author’s memory so far unfold,
And shew your loves and liking to his Wit,
Not in your praise, but often seeing it;
That being the grand assurance that can give
The Poet and the Player means to live.