Fortune, that favours fools, these two short hours,We wish away, both for your sakes and ours,Judging spectators; and desire, in place,To the author justice, to ourselves but grace.Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known,No country's mirth is better than our own:No clime breeds better matter for your whore,Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more,Whose manners, now call'd humours, feed the stage;And which have still been subject for the rageOr spleen of comic writers. Though this penDid never aim to grieve, but better men;Howe'er the age he lives in doth endureThe vices that she breeds, above their cure.But when the wholesome remedies are sweet,And in their working gain and profit meet,He hopes to find no spirit so much diseased,But will with such fair correctives be pleased:For here he doth not fear who can apply.If there be any that will sit so nighUnto the stream, to look what it doth run,They shall find things, they'd think or wish were done;They are so natural follies, but so shewn,As even the doers may see, and yet not own.