An Epistle to The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftesbury with A Prologue and Epilogue on Shakespeare and his Writings [by Thomas Cooke] |
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A Prologue on Shakespeare and his Writings,
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 | An Epistle to The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftesbury |  |
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A Prologue on Shakespeare and his Writings,
Spoke by Mr. Garrick, At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.
The Sun without a Rival guides the Day,
And thro the Zodiac bears imperial Sway;
The lesser Planets, which are seen by Night,
Shine, tho they blaze not with a Flood of Light;
Some Stars there are than these of lesser Fame;
And some there are which twinckling have a Name;
Some shed so faint a Ray, they're scarcely seen,
And nameless are, as if they ne'er had been.
'Tis thus with Shakespeare, our dramatic Soul,
And other Bards, who in their Orbits roll;
They, who approach him nearest, are as far
From him as from the Sun the next bright Star.
Of our dramatic Race some have the Lot
Awhile to be remember'd, some forgot.
And thro the Zodiac bears imperial Sway;
The lesser Planets, which are seen by Night,
Shine, tho they blaze not with a Flood of Light;
Some Stars there are than these of lesser Fame;
And some there are which twinckling have a Name;
Some shed so faint a Ray, they're scarcely seen,
And nameless are, as if they ne'er had been.
'Tis thus with Shakespeare, our dramatic Soul,
And other Bards, who in their Orbits roll;
They, who approach him nearest, are as far
From him as from the Sun the next bright Star.
Of our dramatic Race some have the Lot
Awhile to be remember'd, some forgot.
Like the great Eye of Day that gladdens all,
From those who till the Earth, to those who rule the Ball,
Shakespeare alike delights the lowest Clown,
To him whose Brows are circled with a Crown.
From those who till the Earth, to those who rule the Ball,
Shakespeare alike delights the lowest Clown,
To him whose Brows are circled with a Crown.
In his historic Scenes ye strongly see
What Princes ought, what they ought not, to be;
From your affected Hearts what Praise ye send,
When for his Country Brutus slays his Friend!
Then glows the gen'rous Breast with noble Pride,
And all the vicious, selfish, Dregs subside.
The various Passions he describes so well,
Your Bosoms with Othello's Tortures swell,
And tho her Loves, prepost'rous Loves, surprise,
Poor Desdemona's Suff'rings fill your Eyes;
And who (so harden'd) can refuse to weep,
When Duncan falls, and Glamis murders Sleep!
Or when distracted Lear, by Grief subdued,
Groans under Age and foul Ingratitude,
While his poor Fool, who will not him forsake,
Keeps by satiric Saws his Woes awake.
What Princes ought, what they ought not, to be;
From your affected Hearts what Praise ye send,
When for his Country Brutus slays his Friend!
Then glows the gen'rous Breast with noble Pride,
And all the vicious, selfish, Dregs subside.
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Your Bosoms with Othello's Tortures swell,
And tho her Loves, prepost'rous Loves, surprise,
Poor Desdemona's Suff'rings fill your Eyes;
And who (so harden'd) can refuse to weep,
When Duncan falls, and Glamis murders Sleep!
Or when distracted Lear, by Grief subdued,
Groans under Age and foul Ingratitude,
While his poor Fool, who will not him forsake,
Keeps by satiric Saws his Woes awake.
How bless'd, our Poet shews, are Love and Truth,
When Virtue blossoms on the Rose of Youth.
Whatever Picture of Distress he draws,
You all are influenc'd in the Suff'rer's Cause.
When Virtue blossoms on the Rose of Youth.
Whatever Picture of Distress he draws,
You all are influenc'd in the Suff'rer's Cause.
The Scenes are chang'd; and he commands your Smile,
And brings ye pleas'd to his inchanted Isle.
Who grieves to see the Jew depriv'd of Rest,
When Av'rice and Revenge dilate his Breast?
What is to Shylock woeful is the Birth,
To you, of lively laughter-loving Mirth.
Shallow, Malvolio, bring ye Joy in Tides;
But Falstaffe, with a Torrent, shakes your Sides.
And brings ye pleas'd to his inchanted Isle.
Who grieves to see the Jew depriv'd of Rest,
When Av'rice and Revenge dilate his Breast?
What is to Shylock woeful is the Birth,
To you, of lively laughter-loving Mirth.
Shallow, Malvolio, bring ye Joy in Tides;
But Falstaffe, with a Torrent, shakes your Sides.
Such Shakespeare is; and, as the Springs return,
With Violets, with Roses, deck his Urn;
His Busto crown with Wreaths, and grateful say,
Sweet is his Memory as the Breath of May.
With Violets, with Roses, deck his Urn;
His Busto crown with Wreaths, and grateful say,
Sweet is his Memory as the Breath of May.
| An Epistle to The Right Honourable the Countess of Shaftesbury | |