 | The Victim |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. WILKS.
While
we, by Verse, and powerful Numbers, Charm
The savage Mind, and Passion's Rage disarm;
Words are too faint to speak the pleasing Pain,
That strikes the Soul, and pierces every Vein.
Letters, by Time and slow degrees refin'd,
Imbellish'd Life; and smooth'd the rugged Mind:
While yet the World to polish'd Arts was new,
Greece from the distant Nile her Learning drew;
In time, Rome's conquering Eagles proudly bore
The Grecian Muses to the Latian Shore;
From thence they pass'd the barrier Alpes, to shine.
In colder Climates, water'd by the Rhine:
In Britain next the Julian Standards rose,
And we were cultivated first by Foes:
Where e'er the Tow'ring Roman Virtue mov'd,
Whate'er their Legions conquer'd, they improv'd.
Long has this Island been the Muses Seat,
And Cam and Isis their belov'd Retreat;
Old Chaucer whileom tun'd his Gothick Chime,
And first subdu'd our stubborn Prose to Rhyme;
Shakespear and Spencer next enrich'd our Tongue;
And Dryden finish'd what they labour'd long.
The savage Mind, and Passion's Rage disarm;
Words are too faint to speak the pleasing Pain,
That strikes the Soul, and pierces every Vein.
Letters, by Time and slow degrees refin'd,
Imbellish'd Life; and smooth'd the rugged Mind:
While yet the World to polish'd Arts was new,
Greece from the distant Nile her Learning drew;
In time, Rome's conquering Eagles proudly bore
The Grecian Muses to the Latian Shore;
From thence they pass'd the barrier Alpes, to shine.
In colder Climates, water'd by the Rhine:
In Britain next the Julian Standards rose,
And we were cultivated first by Foes:
Where e'er the Tow'ring Roman Virtue mov'd,
Whate'er their Legions conquer'd, they improv'd.
Long has this Island been the Muses Seat,
And Cam and Isis their belov'd Retreat;
Old Chaucer whileom tun'd his Gothick Chime,
And first subdu'd our stubborn Prose to Rhyme;
Shakespear and Spencer next enrich'd our Tongue;
And Dryden finish'd what they labour'd long.
Our Author backward looks with grateful Eyes,
And on his Fathers Shoulders strives to rise;
Anxious to please, he now revives the Dead,
And raises Iphigenia's mournful Shade;
From Grece, and France, with equal Care and Toil,
Transplants her to Britannia's happy Soil:
Athenian Maids, two thousand Years ago,
With weeping Eyes beheld this Virgin's Woe;
Attend; and you may drop a generous Tear,
Blush not that suffering Virtue is your Care;
Indulge the rising Sorrows in your Breast;
'Tis great to Grieve for Innocence distrest.
And on his Fathers Shoulders strives to rise;
And raises Iphigenia's mournful Shade;
From Grece, and France, with equal Care and Toil,
Transplants her to Britannia's happy Soil:
Athenian Maids, two thousand Years ago,
With weeping Eyes beheld this Virgin's Woe;
Attend; and you may drop a generous Tear,
Blush not that suffering Virtue is your Care;
Indulge the rising Sorrows in your Breast;
'Tis great to Grieve for Innocence distrest.
| The Victim | |