University of Virginia Library

Since Otway's Scenes how few have found the Art,
To touch the Passions, and command the Heart?
And yet from much Inferiour Pens, we know,
That Tears from happy Tales ill told will flow:
How gross the Error then—
To think in Plays, that Language is the whole?
The Stile is but the Body—Fable is the Soul;
We boast no Beauties, nor from Faults are free,
Yet we dare promise what you shall not see;
And when we others Faults with Caution shun,
'Tis the first step t'have sewer of our own:
First then our Muse has clipt her Wings to Night,
Our Pegasus, as made for speed, not flight,
Strains fairly o're the Turf, nor soars from Nature's sight.
No Big-mouth'd Words the want of Thought supply,
Nor scale the Ransack'd Heavens for Simile;
No Scene for Talkings sake's brought useless on,
Nor main Design concludes before the Play is done.
No soft-soul'd Monarch pines for slighted Love,
While the coy Nympth his Humours to remove
Can't bear t'account, but lumps him out her Charms,
And with a generous Jump flies Rampant to his Arms,
No Ranting Heroes with loud Glory swell,
Nor build their Fame on Deeds impossible:
No Parlying Armies battle on the Stage,
While wrangling Chiefs in Wars of Words engage;
Nay, we've neglected too, tho' much in fashion,
To murther Innocence to move Compassion;
Nor yet to raise your Terror can we boast,
One dreadful Rising of a meal-fac'd Ghost:
No Thunder roars, nor Lightning gilds the Sky,
To usher down a dangling Deity.

Wonders like these we have not chose to shew,
For nothing's Great, that's not in Nature True:
The Scenes we chose to shew you, only crave
They may at least a friendly Sentence have;
For what Severity might kill, Advice may save:
Let 'em your Warning, not your Censure see;
For 'twou'd, methinks, a kind of Justice be,
To give the Muse a safe Retreat to Comedy.