The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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PROLOGUE,
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PROLOGUE,
Spoke by Mr. Keen.
Gravely, inspir'd, we find ourselves, to-day,As much inclin'd to preach, almost, as play.
What moral subject can we, then, advance,
More edifying, than the turns of chance!
All earthly bliss rolls, unperceiv'd, away;
All mortal pow'r but prospers, to decay!
Time was, when Rome's wide zeal took in such scope,
That kings, and emperors stood below the Pope;
But holiness, soon growing out of fashion,
Dominion thought it time to change her station,
And snor'd an age out, with the Spanish nation.
That past, t'wards France, she wing'd her dreadful way,
And flatter'd Monsieur, with all Europe's sway.
Now, we, bold Britons, claim her, as our right;
And, next, she talks of turning Muscovite!
Thus, favour'd, by the taste of a late age,
The tyrant, tragedy, engross'd the stage:
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And, then, you smil'd on honour, and on love:
But love, and honour, bear too strict a sway,
And our free Britons could not long obey!
So tragedy expir'd, with many a groan;
And tragi-comedy usurp'd the throne:
This princess was, it seems, of mungrel nature,
Fair cause for England's unmix'd race to hate her!
She reign'd, but little time, and, when she fell,
Brisk comedy rose, rul'd, and govern'd well:
Yet, cou'd not independent pow'r maintain,
So, call'd in farce, co-partner of her reign:
The syren op'ra, next, uprear'd her head,
And, uncontroul'd, her wide dominion spread:
'Till whim, great whim, hurl'd pow'r, at one huge throw,
From opera—good Lord! to puppet-show!
But 'tis mere folly, to recount past ills!
'Tis ours, to please your tastes, not check your wills!
Do but, to-night, forgive our comic crime,
We'll get the dev'l, and Punch, to please, in time!
Cou'd you but one of our fam'd wits engage,
To write some opera, fit for Punch's stage;
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And stride, in jerks, to woo their wooden dames;
So, might our ruin'd stage look big, again,
And break our rivals, in St. Martin's Lane.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |