 | The Virgin Prophetess : or, The Fate of Troy |  |
PROLOGUE.
This costly Play bears its proud Head so high,As if your Smiles it wou'd not beg, but buy.
Yes, to your Smiles it some small Claim might lay,
Did not the Author's Clouds hang o'er the Play.
Either in Church, or State, the Robe or Gown,
The Elder the Learn'd Head, the more Renown.
The Muses Morning only Shines and Warms:
Wit Reigns like Beauty; 'tis when Young it Charms.
Some darling Muse at her first Glorious start
All Love for Love intirely wins your Heart.
Stale Scriblers, like stale Maids, few Suiters follow:
No Oracles of Wit, but from the Young Apollo.
Why have your Pallates so Fantastick been;
Wisdom, when Ripe you relish; Wit when green.
Mistaken World, who in the Muses Field,
Think the Spring only can the Roses yield.
Wits Autumn still the lovely Sweets can bear:
Dotage is all the Winter Season there.
Love, Honour, Glory, from those mighty Themes,
Even th'Elder Bard feels all th'inspiring Beams.
With Nerves unshrinking, and without a Blush
May warmly Write the Fights he cannot push.
Our Author hopes he has not outliv'd the Age,
Ev'n yet to please the Fair—upon a Stage.
| The Virgin Prophetess : or, The Fate of Troy | |