This scrambling Raven, with his needy Beard, Will I whet on to write a Comedy, Wherein shall be compos'd dark sentences, Pleasing to factious brains:

And every other where place me a Jest, Whose high abuse shall more torment than blows:

Then I my self (quicker than Lightning)

Will fly me to a puissant magistrate, And weighting with a Trencher at his back, In midst of jollity, rehearse those gauls, (With some additions)So lately vented in your Theater.

He, upon this, cannot but make complaint, To your great danger, or at least restraint.

COMEDY.

Ha, ha, ha! I laugh to hear thy folly;

This is a trap for Boys, not Men, nor such, Especially desertful in their doings, Whose stay'd discretion rules their purposes.

I and my faction do eschew those vices.