 | Poems on several occasions |  |
PROLOGUE TO “THE EUNUCH.”
We're now no more in those enlighten'd daysWhen squeamish murderers took offence at plays;
When stage to kill a king had approbation,
But stage for plays was vile abomination.
Their tragedies by night were never done;
They scorn'd a meaner witness than the sun:
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Resembling antichristian pageantries.
Nay, Protestant besides the stage is grown:
It breeds no whore,—at least, of Babylon.
Dramatic bards with pious pens conspire
To maul old Popery with poetic fire;
And preach in “Lady Jane,” and sneer in “Spanish Friar.”
From a suspicious place is Terence come,
Yet humbly begs a favourable doom:
'Twas Rome he lived in, but 'twas heathen Rome.
He wrote and flourish'd long ago, 'tis plain:—
His mirth is chaste, nor is his wit profane.
Pity what well is writ, should ill be play'd;
Which should it chance, it justly may be said
That acting is our sport, and not our trade.
Actors have gain'd applause for D'Urfey's plays,
For female farce and sing-song operas.
Let it on t'other side for once be known,
An author's worth for acting can atone:
And though your doom should prove at last severe,
Be just; and, ere you sentence, see and hear.
| Poems on several occasions | |