Moors have this way (as story tells) to know
Whether their brats are truly got or no;
Into the sea the new-born babe is thrown,
There, as instinct directs, to swim or drown.
A barbarous device, to try if spouse
Has kept religiously her nuptial vows.
Such are the trials poets make of plays,
Only they trust to more inconstant seas;
So does our author, this his child commit
To the tempestuous mercy of the pit,
To know if it be truly born of wit.
Critics avaunt, for you are fish of prey,
And feed, like sharks, upon an infant play.
Be ev’ry monster of the deep away;
Let’s have a fair trial and a clear sea.
Let nature work, and do not damn too soon,
For life will struggle long e’er it sink down:
And will at least rise thrice before it drown.
Let us consider, had it been our fate,
Thus hardly to be proved legitimate:
I will not say, we’d all in danger been,
Were each to suffer for his mother’s sin:
But by my troth I cannot avoid thinking,
How nearly some good men might have ’scaped sinking.
But, heav’n be praised, this custom is confined
Alone to th’ offspring of the muses kind:
Our Christian cuckolds are more bent to pity;
I know not one Moor-husband in the city.
I’ th’ good man’s arms the chopping bastard thrives,
For he thinks all his own that is his wives’.
Whatever fate is for this play designed,
The poet’s sure he shall some comfort find:
For if his muse has played him false, the worst
That can befall him, is, to be divorced:
You husbands judge, if that be to be cursed.