 | Cleone |  |
PROLOGUE. By William Melmoth, Esq; Spoken by Mr. Ross.
'Twas once the mode inglorious war to wageWith each bold Bard that durst attempt the Stage,
And Prologues were but preludes to engage.
Then mourn'd the Muse, not story'd Woes alone,
Condemn'd, with tears unfeign'd, to weep her own.
Past are those hostile days: and Wits no more
One undistinguish'd fate with Fools deplore.
No more the Muse laments her long-felt wrongs,
From the rude license of tumultuous tongues:
In peace each Bard prefers his doubtful claim,
And as he merits, meets, or misses, Fame.
'Twas thus in Greece (when Greece fair Science blest,
And Heaven-born Arts their chosen Land possest)
Th' assembled People sate with decent pride,
Patient to hear, and skilful to decide;
Less forward far to censure than to praise,
Unwillingly refus'd the rival Bays.
Yes; they whom Candor and true Taste inspire
Blame not with half the Passion they admire;
Each little Blemish with regret descry,
But mark the Beauties with a raptur'd eye.
Yet modest fears invade our Author's breast,
With Attic lore, or Latian, all unblest;
Where bloom those wreaths, which never know decay;
Where Arts from kindred Arts new force acquire,
And Poets catch from Poets genial fire:
Not thus he boasts the breast humane to prove,
And touch those springs which generous passions move,
To melt the soul by scenes of fabled woe,
And bid the tear for fancy'd sorrows flow;
Far humbler paths he treads in quest of Fame,
And trusts to Nature what from Nature came.
| Cleone | |