The Earl of Warwick A Tragedy |
PROLOGUE, Written by GEORGE COLMAN, Esq; Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY. |
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 | The Earl of Warwick |  |
PROLOGUE, Written by GEORGE COLMAN, Esq; Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY.
Severe each poet's lot; but sure most hard
Is the condition of the playhouse bard:
Doom'd to hear all that wou'd-be critics talk,
And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!
“Yet authors multiply,” you say. 'Tis true.
But what a numerous crop of critics too!
Scholars alone of old durst judge and write;
But now each journalist turns Stagyrite.
Quintilians in each coffee-house you meet,
And many a Longinus walks the street.
Is the condition of the playhouse bard:
Doom'd to hear all that wou'd-be critics talk,
And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!
“Yet authors multiply,” you say. 'Tis true.
But what a numerous crop of critics too!
Scholars alone of old durst judge and write;
But now each journalist turns Stagyrite.
Quintilians in each coffee-house you meet,
And many a Longinus walks the street.
In Shakespear's days, when his advent'rous muse,
A muse of fire! durst each bold licence use,
Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,
To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Calibans unblam'd she drew,
Or goblins, ghosts, and witches, brought to view.
If to historic truth she shap'd her verse,
A nation's annals freely she'd rehearse;
Bring Rome's or England's story on the stage,
And run, in three short hours, thro' half an age.
Our bard, all terror-struck, and fill'd with dread,
In Shakespear's awful footsteps dares not tread;
Thro' the wide field of hist'ry fears to stray,
And builds upon one narrow spot his play;
Steps not from realm to realm, whole seas between,
But barely changes twice or thrice his scene:
While Shakespear vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd spectators fearfully admire,
Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,
On the tight-rope, scarce balanc'd, trembling stands;
Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,
And fears to fall at ev'ry step he takes:
While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,
That setter-up and puller-down of kings,
With British candour dissipate his fear!
An English story fits an English ear.
Tho' harsh and crude you deem his first essay,
A second may your favours well repay;
Applause may nerve his verse, and chear his heart,
And teach the practice of this dangerous art.
A muse of fire! durst each bold licence use,
Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,
To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Calibans unblam'd she drew,
Or goblins, ghosts, and witches, brought to view.
If to historic truth she shap'd her verse,
A nation's annals freely she'd rehearse;
Bring Rome's or England's story on the stage,
And run, in three short hours, thro' half an age.
Our bard, all terror-struck, and fill'd with dread,
In Shakespear's awful footsteps dares not tread;
Thro' the wide field of hist'ry fears to stray,
And builds upon one narrow spot his play;
Steps not from realm to realm, whole seas between,
But barely changes twice or thrice his scene:
While Shakespear vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd spectators fearfully admire,
Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,
On the tight-rope, scarce balanc'd, trembling stands;
Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,
And fears to fall at ev'ry step he takes:
While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,
That setter-up and puller-down of kings,
With British candour dissipate his fear!
An English story fits an English ear.
Tho' harsh and crude you deem his first essay,
A second may your favours well repay;
Applause may nerve his verse, and chear his heart,
And teach the practice of this dangerous art.
| The Earl of Warwick | |