![]() | Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperour of the Turks | ![]() |
PROLOGUE Spoken by Mrs. Cross.
I'm hither sent, but Heaven knows what to say,Or how t'excuse a dull Heroick Play;
Here's nor poignant Repartee, nor taking Raillery,
No Feast for Critick Pit, or Graduate Gallery.
No Beau, who in his very affected Dress,
Does all the Nonsense of his Character express;
This Play on solid History depends,
Old fashion'd stuff, true Love, and faithful Friends.
The Pit our Author dreads as too severe,
The ablest Writers scarce find Mercy there;
Her only hopes in yonder brightness lies,
If we read praise in those Commanding Eyes:
What rude Blustering Critique then will dare
To find a fault, or contradict the Fair?
Th'humble Offering at your Feet she lays,
Nor wishes she to live without your Praise:
Strict Rules of Honour still she kept in view,
And always when she wrote, she thought on you.
Then Ladies own it, let not Detracters say,
You'll not protect one harmless, modest Play.
The Hero to our Sex is still inclin'd,
Securing you, we're sure of all Mankind.
If in that charming Circle you will oft appear,
An Empty House we sha'n't have cause to fear.
![]() | Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperour of the Turks | ![]() |