 | The Sultaness |  |
PROLOGUE.
Spoke by Mr. Wilks.
On
this small Tract of Boards, this Timber Plain,
Where Mirth and Sadness take their Turns to reign:
We strive to please a thousand different Ways,
And shew the Business of Mankind in Plays:
What Loves have we inspir'd? What Virtues taught?
What Wrongs redress'd? What bloody Battles fought?
The Tragic Muse has with unweary'd Toil,
Thro' ev'ry Age, and every distant Soil,
Search'd after Heroes; ransack'd Greece and Rome,
And rais'd our British Monarchs from the Tomb.
Where Mirth and Sadness take their Turns to reign:
We strive to please a thousand different Ways,
And shew the Business of Mankind in Plays:
What Loves have we inspir'd? What Virtues taught?
What Wrongs redress'd? What bloody Battles fought?
The Tragic Muse has with unweary'd Toil,
Thro' ev'ry Age, and every distant Soil,
Search'd after Heroes; ransack'd Greece and Rome,
And rais'd our British Monarchs from the Tomb.
Of all the Great, unhappy Names of Old,
There scarce remains one Story now untold.
This Night, two Lovers of our Age we show,
A sad true Tale, a Modern Scene of Woe;
Yet, that our Heroe may affect you more,
We bring him from the distant Turkish Shore:
Then, think not that the Theme too fresh appears;
A thousand Leagues, are like a thousand Years.
There scarce remains one Story now untold.
This Night, two Lovers of our Age we show,
A sad true Tale, a Modern Scene of Woe;
Yet, that our Heroe may affect you more,
We bring him from the distant Turkish Shore:
Then, think not that the Theme too fresh appears;
A thousand Leagues, are like a thousand Years.
Our honest Author frankly bid me say,
'Tis to the Great Racine he owes his Play:
When Rome in Arms had gain'd immortal Fame,
And proudly triumph'd o'er the Grecian Name,
Her Poets copy'd what Athenians writ,
And boasted in the Spoils of foreign Wit:
Why then shou'd Britons, who so oft have broke
The Pride of Gaul, and bow'd her to the Yoke;
Be blam'd, if they enrich their native Tongue
With what the Gallick Muse has greatly sung:
At least, 'tis hop'd, he'll meet a kinder Fate,
Who strives some Standard Author to translate,
Than they, who give you, without once repenting,
Long-labour'd Nonsense of their own inventing.
Such Wags have been, who boldly durst adventure
To Club a Farce by Tripartite-Indenture:
But, let them share their Dividend of Praise,
And their own Fools-Cap wear, instead of Bays.
'Tis to the Great Racine he owes his Play:
When Rome in Arms had gain'd immortal Fame,
And proudly triumph'd o'er the Grecian Name,
Her Poets copy'd what Athenians writ,
And boasted in the Spoils of foreign Wit:
Why then shou'd Britons, who so oft have broke
The Pride of Gaul, and bow'd her to the Yoke;
Be blam'd, if they enrich their native Tongue
With what the Gallick Muse has greatly sung:
At least, 'tis hop'd, he'll meet a kinder Fate,
Who strives some Standard Author to translate,
Than they, who give you, without once repenting,
Long-labour'd Nonsense of their own inventing.
Such Wags have been, who boldly durst adventure
To Club a Farce by Tripartite-Indenture:
But, let them share their Dividend of Praise,
And their own Fools-Cap wear, instead of Bays.
| The Sultaness | |