 | King Henry the Fifth : Or, the Conquest of France, By the English |  |
PROLOGUE: Spoke by Mr. WILKS.
From
Wit's old Ruins, shadow'd o'er with Bays,
We draw some rich Remains of Shakespear's Praise.
Shakespear!—the Sound bids charm'd Attention wake:
And our aw'd Scenes, with conscious Reve'rence, Shake!
Arduous the Task, to mix with Shakespear's Muse!
Rash Game! where All, who play, are sure to lose.
Yet—what our Author cou'd, he dar'd to try:
And kept the fiery Pillar in his Eye.
Led by such Light, as wou'd not let him stray,
He pick'd out Stars, from Shakespear's milky Way.
We draw some rich Remains of Shakespear's Praise.
Shakespear!—the Sound bids charm'd Attention wake:
And our aw'd Scenes, with conscious Reve'rence, Shake!
Arduous the Task, to mix with Shakespear's Muse!
Rash Game! where All, who play, are sure to lose.
Yet—what our Author cou'd, he dar'd to try:
And kept the fiery Pillar in his Eye.
Led by such Light, as wou'd not let him stray,
He pick'd out Stars, from Shakespear's milky Way.
Hid, in the Cloud of Battle, Shakespear's Care,
Blind, with the Dust of War, o'erlook'd the Fair:
Fond of their Fame, we shew their Influence, here,
And place 'em, twinkling through War's smokey Sphere.
Without their Aid, we lose Love's quick'ning Charms;
And sullen Virtue mopes, in steril Arms.
Now, rightly mix'd, th'enliven'd Passions move:
Love softens War,—and War invigo'rates Love.
Blind, with the Dust of War, o'erlook'd the Fair:
Fond of their Fame, we shew their Influence, here,
And place 'em, twinkling through War's smokey Sphere.
Without their Aid, we lose Love's quick'ning Charms;
And sullen Virtue mopes, in steril Arms.
Now, rightly mix'd, th'enliven'd Passions move:
Love softens War,—and War invigo'rates Love.
Oh!—cry'd that tow'ring Genius of the Stage,
When, first, His Henry charm'd a former Age:
“Oh! for a Muse of Fire, our Cause to friend,
“That might Invention's brightest Heav'n ascend!
“That, for a Stage, a Kingdom might be seen!
“Princes, to act, grace'd with their native Mien:
“And Monarchs, to behold, the swelling Scene!
“Then, like Himself, shou'd warlike Harry rise:
“And, fir'd with all his Fame, blaze, in your Eyes!
“Crouch'd, at his Heels, and, like fierce Hounds, leash'd in,
“Sword, Fire, and Famine, with impatient Grin!
“Shou'd, fawning dreadful! but for Orders, stay:
“And, at his Nod,—start, horrible! away.
When, first, His Henry charm'd a former Age:
“Oh! for a Muse of Fire, our Cause to friend,
“That might Invention's brightest Heav'n ascend!
“Princes, to act, grace'd with their native Mien:
“And Monarchs, to behold, the swelling Scene!
“Then, like Himself, shou'd warlike Harry rise:
“And, fir'd with all his Fame, blaze, in your Eyes!
“Crouch'd, at his Heels, and, like fierce Hounds, leash'd in,
“Sword, Fire, and Famine, with impatient Grin!
“Shou'd, fawning dreadful! but for Orders, stay:
“And, at his Nod,—start, horrible! away.
No barren Tale t'amuse, our Scene imparts:
But points Example at your kindling Hearts.
Mark, in their Dauphin, to our King oppos'd,
The diffe'rent Genius of the Realms disclos'd:
There, the French Levity—vain,—boastful,—loud:
Dancing, in Death,—gay, wanton, fierce, and proud.
Here, with a silent Fire, a temper'd Heat!
Calmly resolv'd, our English Bosoms beat.
But points Example at your kindling Hearts.
Mark, in their Dauphin, to our King oppos'd,
The diffe'rent Genius of the Realms disclos'd:
There, the French Levity—vain,—boastful,—loud:
Dancing, in Death,—gay, wanton, fierce, and proud.
Here, with a silent Fire, a temper'd Heat!
Calmly resolv'd, our English Bosoms beat.
Art is too poor, to raise the Dead, 'tis true:
But Nature does it, by their Worth, in You!
Your Blood, that warm'd their Veins, still flows, the same:
Still feeds your Valour, and supports their Fame.
But Nature does it, by their Worth, in You!
Your Blood, that warm'd their Veins, still flows, the same:
Still feeds your Valour, and supports their Fame.
Oh! let it waste no more, in Civil Jarr:
But flow, for glorious Fame, in foreign War.
But flow, for glorious Fame, in foreign War.
| King Henry the Fifth : Or, the Conquest of France, By the English | |