A Collection Of Poems By John Whaley |
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A Prologue to an English PLAY, Perform'd by the young Gentlemen, of Norwich School. |
 | A Collection Of Poems |  |
A Prologue to an English PLAY, Perform'd by the young Gentlemen, of Norwich School.
Ladies, To ye this Night we consecrate,
And on your Smiles or Frowns depends our Fate;
And nought shall e'er our 'stablish'd Glory move,
If ye our mimick Gallantry approve.
And on your Smiles or Frowns depends our Fate;
And nought shall e'er our 'stablish'd Glory move,
If ye our mimick Gallantry approve.
But oh! If from our awkward Air ye find
Us unacquainted with your softer kind;
If unpolitely we address the Fair,
If we accost her with too rough an Air,
Oh! spare the Student tho' you Damn the Player.
Us unacquainted with your softer kind;
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If we accost her with too rough an Air,
Oh! spare the Student tho' you Damn the Player.
Warm'd only by the Virgin Muses Fire
We yet have touch'd the String, or tun'd the Lyre,
And to those learned Dames alone we speak
In manly Latin, or sonorous Greek;
Spondees, and Dactyls form their Seranades,
And Choriambics please Aonia's Maids.
We yet have touch'd the String, or tun'd the Lyre,
And to those learned Dames alone we speak
In manly Latin, or sonorous Greek;
Spondees, and Dactyls form their Seranades,
And Choriambics please Aonia's Maids.
But hold!—perhaps yon smart Toupéts will hear,
And these harsh Sounds offend their nicer Ear.
Well then, ye Beaux, whose sprightlier Souls despise
These useless Labours of the duller Wise.
Teach us, O teach us in the softest Strain
To tell our Flame, to breath our am'rous Pain.
Teach us genteely, en Francois, to Sigh,
Or in Italian tell the Nymph we Die;
In sprightly Ariets to ask the Favour,
Or in a sad Adagio Vow we'll have her.
And these harsh Sounds offend their nicer Ear.
Well then, ye Beaux, whose sprightlier Souls despise
These useless Labours of the duller Wise.
Teach us, O teach us in the softest Strain
To tell our Flame, to breath our am'rous Pain.
Teach us genteely, en Francois, to Sigh,
Or in Italian tell the Nymph we Die;
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Or in a sad Adagio Vow we'll have her.
But, Faith, we plodding Folks shou'd be but dull,
We have no Eunuch Doctrine in our School.
More nervous Virtues have confirm'd our Choice,
Than the weak Sounds of unprolific Voice.
Yes, thank our Stars—then let us not Despair,
Lets try if—Sense or Worth can move the Fair.
We have no Eunuch Doctrine in our School.
More nervous Virtues have confirm'd our Choice,
Than the weak Sounds of unprolific Voice.
Yes, thank our Stars—then let us not Despair,
Lets try if—Sense or Worth can move the Fair.
Yes, yes, mistaken Beaux, in vain ye Dress,
In vain are daub'd with Powder, Snuff, and Lace.
What tho' the Fair One deigns a civil Glance,
Or asks you what's the latest Cut from France?
What tho' she trips it with you at a Ball,
Or Blushing thanks you if her Fan shou'd fall?
Think ye each sprightly Nymph must yielding prove?
Or must each careless Smile be constru'd Love?
No: from far nobler Springs that Passion flows,
And tho' its Birth to trifles oft it owes,
Yet only cherish'd by desert it grows.
Portia with joy her manly Lord carest,
And in wise Tully was Terentia Blest;
Our British Dames by Virtue have been mov'd,
The rugged Hotspur by his Kate was lov'd:
Great Nassaw was with fair Maria grac'd,
And all his Honours by her Charms increas'd.
In vain are daub'd with Powder, Snuff, and Lace.
What tho' the Fair One deigns a civil Glance,
Or asks you what's the latest Cut from France?
What tho' she trips it with you at a Ball,
Or Blushing thanks you if her Fan shou'd fall?
Think ye each sprightly Nymph must yielding prove?
Or must each careless Smile be constru'd Love?
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And tho' its Birth to trifles oft it owes,
Yet only cherish'd by desert it grows.
Portia with joy her manly Lord carest,
And in wise Tully was Terentia Blest;
Our British Dames by Virtue have been mov'd,
The rugged Hotspur by his Kate was lov'd:
Great Nassaw was with fair Maria grac'd,
And all his Honours by her Charms increas'd.
Let then this beauteous Circle hear my Pray'r;
Like those bright Dames of old make worth your Care,
And be more lov'd than they, be lov'd as ye are Fair.
Like those bright Dames of old make worth your Care,
And be more lov'd than they, be lov'd as ye are Fair.
| A Collection Of Poems | |