The Fatal Extravagance A Tragedy |
PROLOGUE. Written by Aaron Hill, Esq; Spoken by Mr. Ryan. |
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 | The Fatal Extravagance |  |
PROLOGUE. Written by Aaron Hill, Esq; Spoken by Mr. Ryan.
Warm'd
, by a Kindred Sense of England's Woes,
A Caledonian Muse, with Pity, glows;
From ruin'd Hopes, a saving Mortal takes,
And paints th'Unhappy, for the Happy's Sakes.
Scotland's new Taste our meaning Scene supplies,
And a first Flight, on Tragick Pinions, tries.
Brave, and long fam'd in Arms, her warlike Race
Have trod the Fields of Death, with dauntless Grace!
Fierce, and untir'd, in Blood, have nobly dar'd,
And every Toil, and every Danger, shar'd.
Now, fir'd by raising Arts, she grasps the Bays,
And her old Cant, like falling Stocks, decays.
Her long-lost Muse new-lights her ancient Flame!
And our Scene blazes, with recover'd Fame.
A Caledonian Muse, with Pity, glows;
From ruin'd Hopes, a saving Mortal takes,
And paints th'Unhappy, for the Happy's Sakes.
Scotland's new Taste our meaning Scene supplies,
And a first Flight, on Tragick Pinions, tries.
Brave, and long fam'd in Arms, her warlike Race
Have trod the Fields of Death, with dauntless Grace!
Fierce, and untir'd, in Blood, have nobly dar'd,
And every Toil, and every Danger, shar'd.
Now, fir'd by raising Arts, she grasps the Bays,
And her old Cant, like falling Stocks, decays.
Her long-lost Muse new-lights her ancient Flame!
And our Scene blazes, with recover'd Fame.
We teach, to Night,—ah! would 'twere not too late,
How, rash, believing Avarice galls a State;
What private Sorrows, from wild Hazards, flow,
And how false Hope produces certain Woe.
How, rash, believing Avarice galls a State;
What private Sorrows, from wild Hazards, flow,
And how false Hope produces certain Woe.
This, the most natural Business of the Stage,
Will all your generous Hearts, tis hop'd, engage:
None can their Pity, for those Woes conceal,
Which most, who hear, perhaps, too deeply, feel.
The Rants of ruin'd Kings, of mighty Name,
For pompous Misery, small Compassion claim.
Empires o'erturn'd, and Heroes, held in Chains,
Alarm the Mind, but give the Heart no Pains.
To Ills, remote from our Domestic Fears,
We lend our Wonder, but withhold our Tears.
Will all your generous Hearts, tis hop'd, engage:
None can their Pity, for those Woes conceal,
Which most, who hear, perhaps, too deeply, feel.
For pompous Misery, small Compassion claim.
Empires o'erturn'd, and Heroes, held in Chains,
Alarm the Mind, but give the Heart no Pains.
To Ills, remote from our Domestic Fears,
We lend our Wonder, but withhold our Tears.
Not so when, from such Passion, as our own,
Some Favourite Folly's dreadful Fate is shown;
There the Soul bleeds, for what it feels within:
And conscious Pity shakes at suffering Sin.
Some Favourite Folly's dreadful Fate is shown;
There the Soul bleeds, for what it feels within:
And conscious Pity shakes at suffering Sin.
O! give Attention, to the moving Scene,
And shun what yet may be, by what has been.
And shun what yet may be, by what has been.
| The Fatal Extravagance | |