 | King Edgar and Alfreda |  |
PROLOGUE to EDGAR.
This
Play at least Ten Years ago was writt;
A time, when th'Author had more Zeal than Witt;
But pondring on't he found it wou'd not do,
Without Romantick Love and mighty show.
And nothing pleas'd you in those dayes but Rymes,
From Four to Seven we daily rung the Chymes:
Long did you hear, and long the sound did please,
But now—
Y'are surfeited, and Verse grows a Disease.
Well he forbore, and well has nick'd the time,
If Sense may do that is not shodd with Ryme.
If Heroes too that are no more than men,
May be allow'd to tread the Stage agen.
If Lovers may be Lovers, yet not by fits
Rave and discourse like Folks beside their witts.
But if you'll still have Poets wrack their Brain
For Sense that shall your Understandings strain—
A time, when th'Author had more Zeal than Witt;
But pondring on't he found it wou'd not do,
Without Romantick Love and mighty show.
And nothing pleas'd you in those dayes but Rymes,
From Four to Seven we daily rung the Chymes:
Long did you hear, and long the sound did please,
But now—
Y'are surfeited, and Verse grows a Disease.
Well he forbore, and well has nick'd the time,
If Sense may do that is not shodd with Ryme.
If Heroes too that are no more than men,
May be allow'd to tread the Stage agen.
If Lovers may be Lovers, yet not by fits
Rave and discourse like Folks beside their witts.
But if you'll still have Poets wrack their Brain
For Sense that shall your Understandings strain—
To Verse we will return—
And once more let the Goss-Hawk fancy fly,
That beats the Aire and flutters in the Sky,
Sports for a while in view, but takes a flight
On th'sudden, and flyes clearly out of sight.
Still there remains the Musick of her Heells,
And all you hear's the gingle of her Bells.
But Humane Actions now in Playes allow,
And bus'ness such as does from Nature flow,
Let not what's natural be counted Low;
We have no Rant, no Rapture, nor high flight,
The Poet makes us Men and Women all to Night.
And once more let the Goss-Hawk fancy fly,
That beats the Aire and flutters in the Sky,
Sports for a while in view, but takes a flight
On th'sudden, and flyes clearly out of sight.
Still there remains the Musick of her Heells,
And all you hear's the gingle of her Bells.
But Humane Actions now in Playes allow,
And bus'ness such as does from Nature flow,
Let not what's natural be counted Low;
We have no Rant, no Rapture, nor high flight,
The Poet makes us Men and Women all to Night.
| King Edgar and Alfreda | |