An Epistle to The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftesbury with A Prologue and Epilogue on Shakespeare and his Writings [by Thomas Cooke] |
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 | An Epistle to The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftesbury |  |
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TO The Right Honourable The Countess of Shaftesbury.
Fair Patroness of long departed Worth,
O! Thou, who lately call'd our Genius forth.
Who, like a Guardian Angel, didst inspire
Thousands, and taught them what they should admire;
O! Thou, whose Spirit wak'd a drowsy Age
To pay a due Regard to Shakespeare's Page,
To thee the richest Gift of Fame we owe,
That Truth can give, or Fancy can bestow.
Of our poetic Land the lovely'st Flow'rs
Are thine, and thine should be the happyest Hours;
Soft be thy Sleeps, unruffled be thy Dreams,
As are, by Winds untouch'd, the smoothest Streams;
Virtue is thine, by thee more priz'd than Wealth;
And long, O! long be thine the Cherub Health.
The Poet's Bays around thy Temples twine,
And the fair Wreath of constant Love is thine.
O! Thou, who lately call'd our Genius forth.
Who, like a Guardian Angel, didst inspire
Thousands, and taught them what they should admire;
O! Thou, whose Spirit wak'd a drowsy Age
To pay a due Regard to Shakespeare's Page,
To thee the richest Gift of Fame we owe,
That Truth can give, or Fancy can bestow.
Of our poetic Land the lovely'st Flow'rs
Are thine, and thine should be the happyest Hours;
Soft be thy Sleeps, unruffled be thy Dreams,
As are, by Winds untouch'd, the smoothest Streams;
Virtue is thine, by thee more priz'd than Wealth;
And long, O! long be thine the Cherub Health.
The Poet's Bays around thy Temples twine,
And the fair Wreath of constant Love is thine.
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To thee I send what will my Passport gain,
A Debt approv'd by thee, nor pay'd in vain,
A Debt of Justice to your Poet's Shade,
Which may, thro Shakespeare's Name, be grateful made.
Success attend the gentle Hand that draws
His happy Pen, with Zeal, in Shakespeare's Cause.
May that great Work, O! Hanmer, crown thy Days;
And may'st thou well deserve our Shaftesb'ry's Praise.
A Debt approv'd by thee, nor pay'd in vain,
A Debt of Justice to your Poet's Shade,
Which may, thro Shakespeare's Name, be grateful made.
Success attend the gentle Hand that draws
His happy Pen, with Zeal, in Shakespeare's Cause.
May that great Work, O! Hanmer, crown thy Days;
And may'st thou well deserve our Shaftesb'ry's Praise.
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A Prologue on Shakespeare and his Writings,
Spoke by Mr. Garrick, At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.
The Sun without a Rival guides the Day,
And thro the Zodiac bears imperial Sway;
The lesser Planets, which are seen by Night,
Shine, tho they blaze not with a Flood of Light;
Some Stars there are than these of lesser Fame;
And some there are which twinckling have a Name;
Some shed so faint a Ray, they're scarcely seen,
And nameless are, as if they ne'er had been.
'Tis thus with Shakespeare, our dramatic Soul,
And other Bards, who in their Orbits roll;
They, who approach him nearest, are as far
From him as from the Sun the next bright Star.
Of our dramatic Race some have the Lot
Awhile to be remember'd, some forgot.
And thro the Zodiac bears imperial Sway;
The lesser Planets, which are seen by Night,
Shine, tho they blaze not with a Flood of Light;
Some Stars there are than these of lesser Fame;
And some there are which twinckling have a Name;
Some shed so faint a Ray, they're scarcely seen,
And nameless are, as if they ne'er had been.
'Tis thus with Shakespeare, our dramatic Soul,
And other Bards, who in their Orbits roll;
They, who approach him nearest, are as far
From him as from the Sun the next bright Star.
Of our dramatic Race some have the Lot
Awhile to be remember'd, some forgot.
Like the great Eye of Day that gladdens all,
From those who till the Earth, to those who rule the Ball,
Shakespeare alike delights the lowest Clown,
To him whose Brows are circled with a Crown.
From those who till the Earth, to those who rule the Ball,
Shakespeare alike delights the lowest Clown,
To him whose Brows are circled with a Crown.
In his historic Scenes ye strongly see
What Princes ought, what they ought not, to be;
From your affected Hearts what Praise ye send,
When for his Country Brutus slays his Friend!
Then glows the gen'rous Breast with noble Pride,
And all the vicious, selfish, Dregs subside.
The various Passions he describes so well,
Your Bosoms with Othello's Tortures swell,
And tho her Loves, prepost'rous Loves, surprise,
Poor Desdemona's Suff'rings fill your Eyes;
And who (so harden'd) can refuse to weep,
When Duncan falls, and Glamis murders Sleep!
Or when distracted Lear, by Grief subdued,
Groans under Age and foul Ingratitude,
While his poor Fool, who will not him forsake,
Keeps by satiric Saws his Woes awake.
What Princes ought, what they ought not, to be;
From your affected Hearts what Praise ye send,
When for his Country Brutus slays his Friend!
Then glows the gen'rous Breast with noble Pride,
And all the vicious, selfish, Dregs subside.
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Your Bosoms with Othello's Tortures swell,
And tho her Loves, prepost'rous Loves, surprise,
Poor Desdemona's Suff'rings fill your Eyes;
And who (so harden'd) can refuse to weep,
When Duncan falls, and Glamis murders Sleep!
Or when distracted Lear, by Grief subdued,
Groans under Age and foul Ingratitude,
While his poor Fool, who will not him forsake,
Keeps by satiric Saws his Woes awake.
How bless'd, our Poet shews, are Love and Truth,
When Virtue blossoms on the Rose of Youth.
Whatever Picture of Distress he draws,
You all are influenc'd in the Suff'rer's Cause.
When Virtue blossoms on the Rose of Youth.
Whatever Picture of Distress he draws,
You all are influenc'd in the Suff'rer's Cause.
The Scenes are chang'd; and he commands your Smile,
And brings ye pleas'd to his inchanted Isle.
Who grieves to see the Jew depriv'd of Rest,
When Av'rice and Revenge dilate his Breast?
What is to Shylock woeful is the Birth,
To you, of lively laughter-loving Mirth.
Shallow, Malvolio, bring ye Joy in Tides;
But Falstaffe, with a Torrent, shakes your Sides.
And brings ye pleas'd to his inchanted Isle.
Who grieves to see the Jew depriv'd of Rest,
When Av'rice and Revenge dilate his Breast?
What is to Shylock woeful is the Birth,
To you, of lively laughter-loving Mirth.
Shallow, Malvolio, bring ye Joy in Tides;
But Falstaffe, with a Torrent, shakes your Sides.
Such Shakespeare is; and, as the Springs return,
With Violets, with Roses, deck his Urn;
His Busto crown with Wreaths, and grateful say,
Sweet is his Memory as the Breath of May.
With Violets, with Roses, deck his Urn;
His Busto crown with Wreaths, and grateful say,
Sweet is his Memory as the Breath of May.
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An Epilogue on Shakespeare's Women's Characters,
Spoke by Mrs. Woffington, At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.
An antient Bard, Simonides his Name,
A saucy Fellow he, and void of Shame,
Does in his filthy Verses so abuse us,
As if he knew not rightly how to use us.
'Tis well the scurril Sland'rer wrote in Greek;
Which now but few can read, and fewer speak.
Women he has compar'd to Beasts, I'm told,
And fell, without Remorse, on young and old.
What then, says a pert Poet of our Days,
How are ye us'd by Shakespeare in his Plays?
Lady Macbeth's a Tygress stain'd with Blood,
And Tamora a Swine that rolls in Mud;
Regan's a Wolf, and Goneril's a Bear,
Who savagely the Hand that fed them tear.
All this is true; but shewing what is black
Soils not the Ermine, nor the Cygnet's Back.
Poor Desdemona's like a tender Dove,
As innocent and faithful in her Love;
Cordelia shines a Phœnix fit to rise
A Constellation, and adorn the Skys.
A saucy Fellow he, and void of Shame,
Does in his filthy Verses so abuse us,
As if he knew not rightly how to use us.
'Tis well the scurril Sland'rer wrote in Greek;
Which now but few can read, and fewer speak.
Women he has compar'd to Beasts, I'm told,
And fell, without Remorse, on young and old.
What then, says a pert Poet of our Days,
How are ye us'd by Shakespeare in his Plays?
Lady Macbeth's a Tygress stain'd with Blood,
And Tamora a Swine that rolls in Mud;
Regan's a Wolf, and Goneril's a Bear,
Who savagely the Hand that fed them tear.
All this is true; but shewing what is black
Soils not the Ermine, nor the Cygnet's Back.
Poor Desdemona's like a tender Dove,
As innocent and faithful in her Love;
Cordelia shines a Phœnix fit to rise
A Constellation, and adorn the Skys.
Tho Shakespeare often shews that Man is brave,
Each, once at least, in Life's a Woman's Slave;
Her Influence guides his Heart to Good or Ill,
And she directs his Hand to save or kill.
This is a Truth in ev'ry Place and Hour,
While Man has Strength to act, he is in Woman's Pow'r.
Each, once at least, in Life's a Woman's Slave;
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And she directs his Hand to save or kill.
This is a Truth in ev'ry Place and Hour,
While Man has Strength to act, he is in Woman's Pow'r.
| An Epistle to The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftesbury | |