Prologue to 'Sir Martin Marr-all'

  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 pass;
  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 pie:
  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.