rn stage."]

SPECTRUM, THE PROLOGUE.

What, ho! where are these paltry players? still poring in their papers,
and never perfect? For shame, come forth; your audience stay so long,
their eyes wax dim with expectation.

_Enter one of the_ PLAYERS.

How now, my honest rogue? What play shall we have here to-night?

PLAYER.
Sir, you may look upon the title.

PROLOGUE.
What, _Spectrum_ once again? Why, noble Cerberus, nothing but patch-panel
stuff, old gallymawfries, and cotton-candle eloquence? Out, you bawling
bandog! fox-furred slave! you dried stock-fish, you, out of my sight!

[_Exit the_ PLAYER.

Well, 'tis no matter! I'll sit me down and see it; and, for fault of a
better, I'll supply the place of a scurvy prologue.

Spectrum is a looking-glass, indeed,
Wherein a man a history may read
Of base conceits and damned roguery:
The very sink of hell-bred villany.

_Enter a_ JUGGLER.

JUGGLER.
Why, how now, humorous George? What, as melancholy as a mantle-tree?
Will you see any tricks of legerdemain, sleight of hand, cleanly
conveyance, or _deceptio visus_? What will you see, gentleman, to drive
you out of these dumps.

PROLOGUE.
Out, you soused gurnet, you woolfist! Begone, I say, and bid the players
despatch, and come away quickly; and tell their fiery poet that, before
I have done with him I'll make him do penance upon a stage in a calf's
skin.

JUGGLER.
O Lord, sir, ye are deceived in me, I am no tale-carrier; I am a
juggler. I have the superficial skill of all the seven liberal sciences
at my fingers' end. I'll show you a trick of the twelves, and turn him
over the thumbs with a trice; I'll make him fly swifter than meditation.
I'll show you as many toys as there be minutes in a month, and as many
tricks as there be motes in the sun.

PROLOGUE.
Prythee, what tricks canst thou do?

JUGGLER.
Marry, sir, I will show you a trick of cleanly conveyance--_Hei, fortuna
furim nunquam credo_--with a cast of clean conveyance. Come aloft, Jack,
for thy master's advantage. He's gone, I warrant ye.

[SPECTRUM _is conveyed away, and_ WILY BEGUILED
_stands in the place of it_.

PROLOGUE.

Mass, and 'tis well done! Now I see thou canst do something. Hold thee;
there is twelvepence for thy labour.

Go to that barm-froth poet, and to him say,
He quite hath lost the title of his play;
His calf-skin j