 | Merope |  |
308
PROLOGUE.
By Aaron Hill, Esq;Spoken by Mr. Milward.
In Italy, not fam'd for Sense, but Song,
Our Merope first rose, and flourish'd long:
E'en there she fir'd the heart with tragic rage;
And swell'd the Tuscan and the Roman stage.
Thence has our Author drawn his Muse's aid;
The first fair plunder English wit has made.
Sound, to our cost, they long have sent us o'er;
But Sense is what they never lent before
Oh smile upon the capture; nor refuse
To grant reprisals to your Country's Muse.
Yet has our Author (a fast friend to Love)
Disdain'd to imitate, and not improve.
Th'Italian scenes were gloom'd with deep despair;
Here softer passions mix a gentler care:
Here Grief and Love by turns their int'rest press,
And shade the smile of joy with stern distress.
Yet claims our modest writer no pretence
To task the Audience in his Play's defence:
Freely condemn it, if it fails to move;
Or smile it into life, if you approve.
The untam'd Genius of the British Nation
Disdains constraint, but smiles on resignation:
And when in Wit or Love we take the field,
The surest way to conquer is to yield.
| Merope | |