 | Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose |  |
Prologue, design'd for Merope.
The low Translator of a finish'd PieceActs like an honest Drudge to call it his;
As oft the Bungler's anti-chymic head
Converts his Author's gold to brass or lead:
And thus our Novice should (he fears) have claim'd
A glorious Plot, by awkward handling maim'd:
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Your entertainment comes from Italy;
And if the Copy should appear to fall
Not wholly short of its Original,
It may, perhaps to your surprize, be found
Italians shine in sense as well as sound.
For Merope arose, and flourish'd long,
Ev'n in the hungry soil of Shew and Song:
With tears well water'd was her tender root;
She shot with vigour, and she bent with fruit:
Her's were the charms that could by turns engage
The Roman, Tuscan, and Venetian stage,
And never fail'd the warbling Race to move
Without the help of Music, or of Love:
Rejecting Both, perhaps was too severe;
And therefore Love has been adopted here:
Where two fair Females, with a diff'rent fate,
Confess a passion almost out of date;
A passion true in both, in One unfortunate.
And whether in that One ye chuse to blame
Her conduct, or her stars, 'tis much the same:
Ye pity those whom faults of Love undo;
Ye can but pity them, when faultless too.
And if th' Offender, snatch'd in Beauty's prime,
Repairs by death her half-unwilling crime;
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Are mix'd with deeper groans of Penitence;
Safe be her ashes from unhallow'd hands;
The debt is cancell'd; and the loss demands
(What here ye will behold, and always shou'd)
Her Lover's tears, and her Betrayer's blood.
| Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | |