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, For Mr. Johnson, in the Character of Cato.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
PROLOGUE, For Mr. Johnson, in the Character of Cato.
E'er I presume, to try to night's fam'd part,
Kind to the modest, chear a doubtful heart:
No vain conceits too rash a speed create;
I bend, all conscious of a Cato's weight;
Calmly content, by measur'd steps, to rise,
I view the distant goal, with patient eyes:
Fond of the stage, where life's strong passions glow,
But shun the choaky weeds, that o'er it grow.
Unpush'd by pride, climb slow care's due degrees,
Humbly aspiring—and—but long—to please.
Kind to the modest, chear a doubtful heart:
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I bend, all conscious of a Cato's weight;
Calmly content, by measur'd steps, to rise,
I view the distant goal, with patient eyes:
Fond of the stage, where life's strong passions glow,
But shun the choaky weeds, that o'er it grow.
Unpush'd by pride, climb slow care's due degrees,
Humbly aspiring—and—but long—to please.
Well can my mem'ry—to my blush—restore
Whose steps I tread in—who was here—before.
Him have you seen—A Cato, worth your praise!
Fill'd with Rome's fire, and form'd, to grace her Bays!
Ill, to supply such absent splendor, sent—
Receive me—in the light—His lustre lent.
Judge me not vain, while lengths, unwish'd, I run;
See, the faint shadow—and suppose—the Sun.
Whose steps I tread in—who was here—before.
Him have you seen—A Cato, worth your praise!
Fill'd with Rome's fire, and form'd, to grace her Bays!
Ill, to supply such absent splendor, sent—
Receive me—in the light—His lustre lent.
Judge me not vain, while lengths, unwish'd, I run;
See, the faint shadow—and suppose—the Sun.
Such, I would be—such—if time's future day
Frowns not, on hopes too bold—perhaps—I may:
Try, with kind confidence, what praise can do:
Think it, but, possible—and make it—true;
Stoop, when I fall—support me, where I stand;
Weakness grows strength—in Pity's guardian hand.
Frowns not, on hopes too bold—perhaps—I may:
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Think it, but, possible—and make it—true;
Stoop, when I fall—support me, where I stand;
Weakness grows strength—in Pity's guardian hand.
NOT at one step, far distant heights we climb:
Merit and favour—are the gifts—of Time.
Gradual in growth, and kindling at your flame,
So, might you teach my taste to meet your aim:
Rais'd by your smiles, to touch the point in view,
You make your Cato—and he dies—for you.
Merit and favour—are the gifts—of Time.
Gradual in growth, and kindling at your flame,
So, might you teach my taste to meet your aim:
Rais'd by your smiles, to touch the point in view,
You make your Cato—and he dies—for you.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |