 | Love In A Riddle |  |
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. WILKS.Our Author, of his Rural Muse afraid,
Calls in, To-night, plain Sonnet to his Aid.
His Scheme, I told him, might some Judgment shew,
Could he have call'd in Skilful Voices too.
To that he answer'd—Let your Sounds have Sense,
Old England will with English Throats dispense,
And take what's well design'd, for Excellence.
'Tis not our Nice Performance is the Thing;
Good Songs will always Candid Hearers bring;
Provided—we find Airs, which they Themselves may sing.
An English Song, ill sung, will please Good-nature:
You've some Delight, to know you sing it better.
If Songs are harmless Revels of the Heart,
Why should our Native Tongue not bear its Part?
Why after learned Warblers must we pant,
And doat on Airs, which only They can chaunt?
Methinks 'twere hard, if, in the cheerful Spring,
Were none but Nightingales allow'd to sing!
The Lark, the Sparrow, and the plain Cuckooe,
Have all an Equal Right, to Chirp, and Wooe:
Ev'n France in That her Liberty maintains;
Her Songs, at least, are free from Foreign Chains,
And Peers and Peasants sing their Native Strains.
Time was, even Here, when D'Urfey vamp'd a Song,
The same the Courtier and the Cobler sung.
What tho' our Connoisseurs may love Champagne;
Must never English Ale go down again?
Must no Mouths drink, but what at Taverns dine?
All Pockets reach not Honest Jephson's Wine.
Since then, of late, you've given our Hopes some Ground,
Since plain October has your Favour found,
Why Troth! ev'n mend your Draught, and let old Songs go round.
| Love In A Riddle | |