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Shall Scar-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
King. Thou fpeakest Wonders.
Cran. She shall be to the Happiness of England,
King. O Lord Archbishop,
IS ten to one this Play can never please
All that are here: Some come to take their ease, And sleep out an A&t or two; but those we fear We've frighted with our Trumpets: fo’tis clear, They'll say it's naught. Others, to hear the City Abus'd extreamly, and to cry That's witty; Which we have not done neither; that, I fear, All the expected good w’are like to hear, For this Play at this time, is only in The merciful Construktion of good Women ; For such a one we shew'd’em: If they smile, And Say 'twill do; I know within a while, All the best Men are ours; for 'tis ill hap, If they hold, when their Ladies bid 'em clap.