 | Busiris, King of Egypt |  |
PROLOGUE, By a Friend. Spoken by Mr. Booth.
Long
have you seen the Greek and Roman Name,
Assisted by the Muse, renew their Fame:
While yet unsung those Heroes sleep, from whom
Greece form'd her Plato's, and her Cæsar's Rome.
Assisted by the Muse, renew their Fame:
While yet unsung those Heroes sleep, from whom
Greece form'd her Plato's, and her Cæsar's Rome.
Such, Egypt, were thy Sons! Divinely Great
In Arts, and Arms, in Wisdom, and in State.
Her early Monarchs gave such Glories Birth,
Their Ruins are the Wonders of the Earth.
Structures so Vast by those Great Kings design'd,
Are but faint Sketches of their boundless Mind:
Yet ne'er has Albion's Scene, though long renown'd,
With the stern Tyrants of the Nile been crown'd.
In Arts, and Arms, in Wisdom, and in State.
Her early Monarchs gave such Glories Birth,
Their Ruins are the Wonders of the Earth.
Structures so Vast by those Great Kings design'd,
Are but faint Sketches of their boundless Mind:
Yet ne'er has Albion's Scene, though long renown'd,
With the stern Tyrants of the Nile been crown'd.
The Tragic Muse in Grandeur shou'd excell,
Her Figure blazes, and her Numbers swell.
The proudest Monarch of the proudest Age,
From Egypt comes to tread the British Stage:
Old Homer's Heroes Moderns are to those
Whom this Night's Venerable Scenes disclose.
Her Figure blazes, and her Numbers swell.
The proudest Monarch of the proudest Age,
From Egypt comes to tread the British Stage:
Old Homer's Heroes Moderns are to those
Whom this Night's Venerable Scenes disclose.
Here Pomp and Splendor serve but to prepare;
To touch the Soul is our peculiar Care;
By just Distress soft Pity to impart,
And mend your Nature, while we move your Heart;
Nor wou'd these Scenes in empty Words abound,
Or overlay the Sentiment with Sound.
Words (when the Poet wou'd your Souls engage)
Are the meer Garnish of an Idle Stage.
When Passion rages, Eloquence is mean;
Gestures and Looks best speak the Moving Scene.
To touch the Soul is our peculiar Care;
By just Distress soft Pity to impart,
And mend your Nature, while we move your Heart;
Or overlay the Sentiment with Sound.
Words (when the Poet wou'd your Souls engage)
Are the meer Garnish of an Idle Stage.
When Passion rages, Eloquence is mean;
Gestures and Looks best speak the Moving Scene.
Ye shining Fair! when tender Woes invite
To pleasing Anguish, and severe Delight,
By your Affliction you compute your Gain,
And rise in Pleasure, as you rise in Pain.
If then just Objects of Concern are shown,
And your Hearts heave with Sorrows not your own,
Let not the generous Impulse be withstood,
Strive not with Nature, blush not to be Good:
Sighs only from a Noble Temper rise,
And 'tis your Virtue swells into your Eyes.
To pleasing Anguish, and severe Delight,
By your Affliction you compute your Gain,
And rise in Pleasure, as you rise in Pain.
If then just Objects of Concern are shown,
And your Hearts heave with Sorrows not your own,
Let not the generous Impulse be withstood,
Strive not with Nature, blush not to be Good:
Sighs only from a Noble Temper rise,
And 'tis your Virtue swells into your Eyes.
| Busiris, King of Egypt | |