<dTitle type=main>Epicœne, or the Silent Woman</dTitle>
<l>Truth sayes, of old, the art of making plaies
<l>Was to content the people; and their praise
<l>Was to the Poet money, wine, and bayes.
<l>But in this age, a sect of writers are,
<l>That, onely, for particular likings care,
<l>And will taste nothing that is populare.
<l>With such we mingle neither braines, nor brests;
<l>our wishes, like to those make publique feasts,
<l>Are not to please the cookes tastes, but the guestes.
<l>Yet, if those cunning palates hether come,
<l>They shall find guests entreaty, and good roome;
<l>And though all relish not, sure, there will be some,
<l>That, when they leaue their seates, shall make them say,
<l>Who wrot that piece, could so have wrote a play:
<l>But that, he knew, this was the better way.
<l>Fo . . .