Prologue to the GuardianBefore the Prince.

WHo says the Times do Learning disallow?
'Tis false, 'twas never Honor'd so as Now.
When you appear, Great Prince, our Night is done;
You are our Morning Star, and shall be'our Sun.
But our Scene's London now; and by the rout
We perish, if the Round-heads be about.
For now no ornament the Head must wear,
No Bays, no Mitre, not so much as Hair.
How can a Play pass safely, when ye know
Cheapside Cross falls for making but a Show?
Our onely Hope is this, that it may be
A Play may pass too, made Extempore.
Though other Arts poor and neglected grow,
They'l admit Po'esie which was always so.
But we contemn the fury of these days,
And scorn no less their Censure then their Praise.
Our Muse, blest Prince, does onely'on you relie;
Would gladly Live, but not refuse to Dye.
Accept our hasty Zeal; a thing that's play'd
Ere't is a Play, and Acted ere 'tis Made.
Our Ign'orance, but our Duty too we show;
I would all Igno'rant People would do so!
At other Times expect our Wit or Art;
This Comedy is Acted by the Heart.