Sinopsis

Fools, which each man meets in his dish each day,Are yet the great regalios of a play;In which to poets you but just appear,To prize that highest, which cost them so dear;Fops in the town more easily will ;One story makes a statutable ass:But such in plays must be much thicker sown,Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.Observing poets all their walks invade,As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade:And when they have enough for comedy,They stow their several bodies in a pye:The poet's but the cook to fashion it,For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit.To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong;None welcome those who bring their cheer along.