Act 5 — THE PROLOGUE TO THE KING AND QUEEN.

The Author, royal sir, so dreads this night, As if for writing he were doom'd to th' sight; Or else, unless you do protect his fame, Y' had sav'd his play, and sentenc'd him to th' flame. For though your name or power were i' th' reprieve, Such works, he thinks, are but condemn'd to live. Which for this place, being rescu'd from the fire, Take ruin from th' advancement, and fall higher. Though none, he hopes, sit here upon his wit, As if he poems did, or plays commit; Yet he must needs fear censure that fears praise, Nor would write still, were't to succeed i' th' bays: For he is not o' th' trade, nor would excel In this kind, where 'tis lightness to do well. Yet, as the gods refin'd base things, and some Beasts foul i' th' herd grew pure i' th' hecatomb; And as the ox prepar'd and crowned bull Are offerings, though kept back, and altars full; So, mighty sir, this sacrifice being near The knife at Oxford, which y' have kindled here, He hopes 'twill from you and the Queen grow clean, And turn t' oblation, what he meant a scene.