In publishing this tragedy, I do but challenge to myself that liberty, which other men have ta'en before me; not that I affect praise by it, for, nos haec novimus esse nihil,(1) only since it was acted, in so dull a time of winter, presented in so open and black a theatre, that it wanted (that which is the only grace and setting out of a tragedy) a full and understanding auditory: and that since that time I have noted, most of the people that come to that playhouse, resemble those ignorant asses (who visiting stationers' shops their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books) I present it to the general view with this confidence:

Nec rhoncos metues, maligniorum, Nec scombris tunicas, dabis molestas.(2)

If it be objected this is no true dramatic poem,(3) I shall easily confess it, — non potes in nugas dicere