Another Monologue from Epicoene

From Epicoene by Ben Jonson

any · philosophical · 1:01 min

The ends of all, who for the scene do write, Are, or should be, to profit and delight. And still't hath been the praise of all best times, So persons were not touch'd, to tax the crimes. Then, in this play, which we present to-night, And make the object of your ear and sight, On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true: Lest so you make the maker to judge you, For he knows, poet never credit gain'd By writing truths, but things well feign'd. If any yet will, with particular sleight Of application, wrest what he doth write; And that he meant, or him, or her, will say: They make a libel, which he made a play.

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