Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/102

 common passions, hopes, and fears, that still, 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 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 To please himself, he sure might have his end Without th' expense of hope; and that he had That made this play, although the play be bad. Then, gentlemen, be thrifty: save your dooms 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.