A Prologue of the Author's to a Masque at Witten

Expect not here a curious river fine:Our wits are short of that—alas the time!The neat refined language of the courtWe know not; if we did, our country sportMust not be too ambitious: 'tis for kings,5Not for their subjects, to have such rare things.Besides, though, I confess, Parnassus hardly,Yet Helicon this summer-time is dry:Our wits were at an ebb, or very low;And, to say troth, I think they cannot flow.10But yet a gracious influence from youMay alter nature in our brow-sick crew.Have patience then, we pray, and sit awhile,And, if a laugh be too much, lend a smile.