 | Arden of Feversham |  |
PROLOGUE,
By a FRIEND.Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.
The
piece is Lillo's—He, long since in dust:
Criticks far hence; or spare his urn's sad trust,
Kind to his Muse, and to his memory just;
Criticks far hence; or spare his urn's sad trust,
Kind to his Muse, and to his memory just;
His Muse resembles him, and knows no art;
She speaks not to the head, but to the heart.
The artless maid, by no false seal impress'd,
Bears but an honest copy of his breast:
And ev'ry eye has own'd, his natural lay,
Sprung from the heart, wings to the heart it's way.
She speaks not to the head, but to the heart.
The artless maid, by no false seal impress'd,
Bears but an honest copy of his breast:
And ev'ry eye has own'd, his natural lay,
Sprung from the heart, wings to the heart it's way.
The Tragic Bard apes not the Epick fire,
On Fancy's wing still aiming to aspire:
In Nature's palace, simple, great, and plain,
Inrich'd and crowded ornament were vain:
Embellishment does but distract the mind,
Which Art should never to minuteness bind.
Tho' honey'd language she from Hybla steal,
Your ears applaud—your hearts no ardours feel.
With labour'd art tho' the sad tale be told,
The melting tear, mean while congeal'd, grows cold.
When Passion speaks immediate to the soul,
Parts she o'erlooks, to grasp at once the whole.
On Fancy's wing still aiming to aspire:
In Nature's palace, simple, great, and plain,
Inrich'd and crowded ornament were vain:
Embellishment does but distract the mind,
Which Art should never to minuteness bind.
Tho' honey'd language she from Hybla steal,
Your ears applaud—your hearts no ardours feel.
With labour'd art tho' the sad tale be told,
The melting tear, mean while congeal'd, grows cold.
When Passion speaks immediate to the soul,
Parts she o'erlooks, to grasp at once the whole.
To night, your Bard, from your own annals shews,
A dreadful story of domestic woes:
From facts he draws (his picture's from the life)
The injur'd husband, and the faithless wife,
Doom'd all the train of bosom pangs to prove,
Pangs, which must always wait on lawless love.
A dreadful story of domestic woes:
From facts he draws (his picture's from the life)
The injur'd husband, and the faithless wife,
Doom'd all the train of bosom pangs to prove,
Pangs, which must always wait on lawless love.
Ye generous who feel for other's woe,
Ye fair, whose tears for injur'd virtue flow,
In justice to yourselves, applaud his plan,
And judge the poet, as ye lov'd the man.
Ye fair, whose tears for injur'd virtue flow,
In justice to yourselves, applaud his plan,
And judge the poet, as ye lov'd the man.
| Arden of Feversham | |