 | Edwin |  |
3
PROLOGUE: Written by Mr.Theobald: Spoke by Mr. Ryan.
Oft
have you mourn'd, in this degenerate Age,
How low is sunk the noble Tragic Rage;
With Justice may we boast, in former Times,
Heroes and Bards, the Product of these Climes:
Whate'er Decay our Poets Honours stains,
The Heroes Blood still runs in British Veins.
Of our old Virtue there we stand possest;
Brave, when most cool; unconquer'd, tho' deprest.
How low is sunk the noble Tragic Rage;
With Justice may we boast, in former Times,
Heroes and Bards, the Product of these Climes:
Whate'er Decay our Poets Honours stains,
The Heroes Blood still runs in British Veins.
Of our old Virtue there we stand possest;
Brave, when most cool; unconquer'd, tho' deprest.
How should we Athens in our Scenes outdo,
Transmitting Deeds beyond what Greece e'er knew,
Did but your well-known Worth and Martial Fire
Burn in our Poets, and their Strains inspire!
What Charm the Tragick Muse to this shall raise?
What, but th'Applause of you who act the things you praise?
Transmitting Deeds beyond what Greece e'er knew,
Did but your well-known Worth and Martial Fire
Burn in our Poets, and their Strains inspire!
What Charm the Tragick Muse to this shall raise?
What, but th'Applause of you who act the things you praise?
Oft as the well-wrought Tale with artful Woe
Makes beauteous Bosoms heave, and Eyes o'erflow,
Dare to commend; nor think your Virtue less,
Because your Hearts bleed at a feign'd Distress.
Passion, when just, the lab'ring Soul beguiles;
We groan with Pleasure; and we weep in Smiles.
To-night the Muse a Saxon Monarch draws,
Struggling with Griefs from a fictitious Cause;
Alike in Love unhappy, and a Throne,
Sinking by Crimes that hardly seem his own.
If he appears unconscious of Offence,
And stands the Mark of angry Providence;
Pity the suff'ring Prince, and lay the Weight,
Not on his Guilt, but his o'er-ruling Fate.
Makes beauteous Bosoms heave, and Eyes o'erflow,
Dare to commend; nor think your Virtue less,
Because your Hearts bleed at a feign'd Distress.
Passion, when just, the lab'ring Soul beguiles;
We groan with Pleasure; and we weep in Smiles.
To-night the Muse a Saxon Monarch draws,
Struggling with Griefs from a fictitious Cause;
Alike in Love unhappy, and a Throne,
Sinking by Crimes that hardly seem his own.
If he appears unconscious of Offence,
And stands the Mark of angry Providence;
Pity the suff'ring Prince, and lay the Weight,
Not on his Guilt, but his o'er-ruling Fate.
| Edwin | |