HOST:
Those common passions, hopes and fears, that still,
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The poets first, and then the prologues fill,
In this our age: he that writ this, by me
Protests against as modest foolery.
He thinks it an odd thing to be in pain
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For nothing else, but to be well again.
Who writes to fear is so: had he not writ,
You ne'er had been the judges of his wit;
And when he had, did he but then intend
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To please himself, he sure might have his end
Without the expense of hope; and that he had,
That made this play, although the play be bad.
Then, gentlemen, be thrifty, save your dooms
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For the next man or the next play that comes;
For smiles are nothing where men do not care,
And frowns as little where they need not fear.