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Curate, and Sexton, I have heard of you too, let me hear no more, And what's past, is forgotten; For this woman, Though her intent were bloody, yet our Law Calls it not death: yet that her punishment May deter others from such bad attempts, The dowry she brought with her, shall be emploi'd To build a Nunnery, where she shall spend The remnant of her life.

_Viol_.

Since I have miss'd my ends, I scorn what can fall on me.

_Assist_.

The strict discipline Of the Church, will teach you better thoughts. And Signiors, You that are Batchelours, if you ever marry, In _Bartolus_ you may behold the issue Of Covetousness and Jealousie; and of dotage, And falshood in _Don Henrique_: keep a mean then; _For be assured, that weak man meets all ill, That gives himself up to a womans will_.



[_Exeunt_.

Prologue.

_To tell ye (Gentlemen,) we have a Play, A new one too, and that 'tis launch'd to day, The Name ye know, that's nothing to my Story; To tell ye, 'tis familiar, void of Glory, Of State, of Bitterness: of wit you'll say, For that is now held wit, that tends that way, Which we avoid: To tell ye too 'tis merry, And meant to make ye pleasant, and not weary: The Stream that guides ye, easie to attend: To tell ye that 'tis good, is to no end, If you believe not. Nay, to goe thus far, To swear it, if you swear against, is war.

To assure you any thing, unless you see, And so conceive, is vanity in me; Therefore I leave it to it self, and pray Like a good Bark, it may work out to day, And stem all doubts; 'twas built for such a proof, And we hope highly: if she lye aloof For her own vantage, to give wind at will, Why let her work, only be you but still, And sweet opinion'd, and we are bound to say, You are worthy Judges, and you crown the Play_.

Epilogue.

_The Play is done, yet our Suit never ends, Still when you part, you would still part our friends, Our noblest friends; if ought have faln amiss, O let it be sufficient, that it is, And you have pardon'd it. In Buildings great All the whole Body cannot be so neat, But something may be mended; Those are fair, And worthy love, that may destroy, but spare_.

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