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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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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Prologue,
for Mr. Cibber, junior.
Comes slowly, and reluctantly, forward; stands silent, and sideling, twirling his Hat—and, now and then, looking up, with a half-suppressed Leer of Irresolution.
'Tis I—tho'
shame-fac'd,—modest The, now, tries ye,
Don't let th' unlook'd-for change—too much surprize ye.
Your loose deserter, now brought up for sentence,
Uncocks his contrite phiz—and glouts repentance.
Sinners should all feel shame. So far, plain fact is:
Yet, some blush aukwardly—for want of practice.
Ah! what can move hard hearts—if yours he misses,
Whose penitential tweer stands crimp'd, as this is.
Not Abel's three-tir'd squint more queerly show'd him,
When the crack'd urinal had half-o'erflow'd him.
Hem—now I'll pluck up grace—and make confession,
Then (like snug papist)—tick, for new transgression,
Some few wild oats I've sown: some, late—been mowing;
And—not to lie—I've left young crops, yet, growing.
Bear with slow penitence—or, spoil a convert:
Much 'have I suffer'd—and no little done for't!
I'm a poor sinful cur—heav'n un-bewhelp me!
Be-mus'd—be-creditor'd—be-wiv'd, God help me!
Plung'd, in a sea of woes—past all enduring;
Yet, not one woe, but was—my own procuring.
There now!—Let virtue ne'er expect man's pity,
If truth, so plainly told, wants force to hit ye.
Don't let th' unlook'd-for change—too much surprize ye.
Your loose deserter, now brought up for sentence,
Uncocks his contrite phiz—and glouts repentance.
Sinners should all feel shame. So far, plain fact is:
Yet, some blush aukwardly—for want of practice.
Ah! what can move hard hearts—if yours he misses,
Whose penitential tweer stands crimp'd, as this is.
Not Abel's three-tir'd squint more queerly show'd him,
When the crack'd urinal had half-o'erflow'd him.
Hem—now I'll pluck up grace—and make confession,
Then (like snug papist)—tick, for new transgression,
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And—not to lie—I've left young crops, yet, growing.
Bear with slow penitence—or, spoil a convert:
Much 'have I suffer'd—and no little done for't!
I'm a poor sinful cur—heav'n un-bewhelp me!
Be-mus'd—be-creditor'd—be-wiv'd, God help me!
Plung'd, in a sea of woes—past all enduring;
Yet, not one woe, but was—my own procuring.
There now!—Let virtue ne'er expect man's pity,
If truth, so plainly told, wants force to hit ye.
Well; after all—I'm a wild chap—that's certain:
And many a foolish farce, I've plaid my part in.
Yet, search life through, truth ask'd will answer, sadly,
Men, that act many parts, must act some madly;
But, for my own—to whom hard-fortune gave one,
Oft, in my life to come, I'll act a grave one.
And many a foolish farce, I've plaid my part in.
Yet, search life through, truth ask'd will answer, sadly,
Men, that act many parts, must act some madly;
But, for my own—to whom hard-fortune gave one,
Oft, in my life to come, I'll act a grave one.
Nay, pray, don't laugh—As I'm a hopeful sinner,
You shoudn't blue—so bashful a beginner!
Sure, I may act grave parts—who here can borrow,
Where tears by urn-fulls flow—from tragic sorrow.
Lab'ring from dirge to catch, to gain your pardon,
I'll dig, from bed to bed, the muse's garden.
Teach ye to cry, to-day—to-morrow twitter;
'Twixt two such sweet extremes—farewel all bitter.—
Restor'd to favour,—and no more a fibber,
Lord! what new dev'l (they'll cry) has mottled Cibber?
You shoudn't blue—so bashful a beginner!
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Where tears by urn-fulls flow—from tragic sorrow.
Lab'ring from dirge to catch, to gain your pardon,
I'll dig, from bed to bed, the muse's garden.
Teach ye to cry, to-day—to-morrow twitter;
'Twixt two such sweet extremes—farewel all bitter.—
Restor'd to favour,—and no more a fibber,
Lord! what new dev'l (they'll cry) has mottled Cibber?
But, we'll be serious—'Tis nor worse, nor better,
I'm in my country's case—a deep-dipt debtor!—
Is that a crime, too black to hope your pity?
Ah! tell me—camp, fleet, country, court, and city.
—Nay, there's a King, God bless him! who, they say,
Owes—more than any king, but he, can pay.
Owes, to his maker—ev'ry lov'd attraction,
That awes rebellion, and disgraces faction.
Owes to his people—(what they fly to lend him)
Millions of hearts, and hands, that all befriend him.—
Owes, to himself—contempt of fears below him.—
Owes mercy, to his foes—because they show him.
I'm in my country's case—a deep-dipt debtor!—
Is that a crime, too black to hope your pity?
Ah! tell me—camp, fleet, country, court, and city.
—Nay, there's a King, God bless him! who, they say,
Owes—more than any king, but he, can pay.
Owes, to his maker—ev'ry lov'd attraction,
That awes rebellion, and disgraces faction.
Owes to his people—(what they fly to lend him)
Millions of hearts, and hands, that all befriend him.—
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Owes mercy, to his foes—because they show him.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |