The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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Prologue,
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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Prologue,
spoken by a young Gentleman, At a Play, called the Tuscan Treaty, acted for the Benefit of Mr. William Bond, in Covent Garden Theatre.
Friends have such sov'reign pow'r to task the heart,
We must obey 'em, tho' we want the art!
Hence, has it fall'n, this evening, to my share,
To read a play-house lecture, tho' no player.
We must obey 'em, tho' we want the art!
Hence, has it fall'n, this evening, to my share,
To read a play-house lecture, tho' no player.
Think me not, thence, less fit.—Their business, here,
Is but plain nature—hers, the smile, and tear!
From truth, not time, the actor takes his fame,
And length of practice gives but bastard claim;
Else, would the oldest mistress be the toast,
And wives, who plagu'd you, longest, please you most.
Is but plain nature—hers, the smile, and tear!
From truth, not time, the actor takes his fame,
And length of practice gives but bastard claim;
Else, would the oldest mistress be the toast,
And wives, who plagu'd you, longest, please you most.
To act, is then, to imitate, 'tis true;
But take that truth, with a distinction, too;
Wou'd but each actor, imitating well,
Learn, from himself, another to excel:
Search his own bosom; copy, from within,
Seize your attention, and your passions win;
Then, would the stage, of no neglect, complain,
But love, and grief, and pity, charm, again.
But take that truth, with a distinction, too;
Wou'd but each actor, imitating well,
Learn, from himself, another to excel:
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Seize your attention, and your passions win;
Then, would the stage, of no neglect, complain,
But love, and grief, and pity, charm, again.
Yet, were there play'rs, like me, who, void of art,
Felt not the anguish, that inspires their part,
What ill-judg'd rantings would untune distress!
With weak varieties, of wild excess!
Felt not the anguish, that inspires their part,
What ill-judg'd rantings would untune distress!
With weak varieties, of wild excess!
Among
such play'rs, methinks, e'en I could shine;
Strike out new walks, and charm, with new design.
Now, in big sounds, I'd bowl away, to fame,
And nod, and sink, and lumber, into name.
From side, to side, next, with enormous swing,
I'd heave on majesty, and puff the king.
Two foot, too short, that single fault I'd feel,
And eke my length out, with a yard of heel.
For solemn utt'rance, has applause been due?
I'd have that art, to force applauses, too.
With slow-rais'd foot, keep time, to my own drawl,
'Till sleep's befriending influence hushes all.
Strike out new walks, and charm, with new design.
Now, in big sounds, I'd bowl away, to fame,
And nod, and sink, and lumber, into name.
From side, to side, next, with enormous swing,
I'd heave on majesty, and puff the king.
Two foot, too short, that single fault I'd feel,
And eke my length out, with a yard of heel.
For solemn utt'rance, has applause been due?
I'd have that art, to force applauses, too.
With slow-rais'd foot, keep time, to my own drawl,
'Till sleep's befriending influence hushes all.
121
Such actors have been seen!—but wou'd your taste
Distinguish, nor submit to praise, in haste;
Well mortify'd, while censur'd into fame,
Thought would instruct 'em, how to 'scape your blame.
Nature would mark the look, adapt the mien,
And passions, rightly painted, grace the scene.
Scorn, at presumptuous ignorance, would rise,
And shoot reproachful, from averted eyes.
Sorrow, in mournful accents, humbly flow,
And melt the stubborn heart, in weeping woe.
Wonder, the starting eye-brows, upward, draw,
And, on the posture, stamp a speechless awe.
Joy, to the features, would restore their grace,
And light up all the lustre of the face.
Anger would gnash the teeth, the nostrils strain,
Swell, in each muscle, boil, in ev'ry vein;
With restless motion, agitate the frame,
Burst out, like thunder; and like light'ning, flame.
Distinguish, nor submit to praise, in haste;
Well mortify'd, while censur'd into fame,
Thought would instruct 'em, how to 'scape your blame.
Nature would mark the look, adapt the mien,
And passions, rightly painted, grace the scene.
Scorn, at presumptuous ignorance, would rise,
And shoot reproachful, from averted eyes.
Sorrow, in mournful accents, humbly flow,
And melt the stubborn heart, in weeping woe.
Wonder, the starting eye-brows, upward, draw,
And, on the posture, stamp a speechless awe.
Joy, to the features, would restore their grace,
And light up all the lustre of the face.
Anger would gnash the teeth, the nostrils strain,
Swell, in each muscle, boil, in ev'ry vein;
With restless motion, agitate the frame,
Burst out, like thunder; and like light'ning, flame.
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Thus, I conceive, but want the pow'r, to show,
What actors should, to art, and nature, owe;
Such, when you find—'tis thiers, the scene to raise,
'Tis yours, to mark their worth, and fix their praise.
What actors should, to art, and nature, owe;
Such, when you find—'tis thiers, the scene to raise,
'Tis yours, to mark their worth, and fix their praise.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |