Classic Poem

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, at all best times,
So persons are not touched, to tax the crimes.
Then, in this play, which we present tonight,
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 gained,
By writing truths but things (like truths) well feign
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.