 | The Imperial Captives |  |
xi
PROLOGUE; Written by Mr. Beckingham.
In
this Projecting, this Censorious Age,
So many diff'rent Schemes your Minds engage,
You've scarce left room for any on the Stage.
Whilst Pulpits war, and Stock-jobbers debate,
How doubtful is the slighted Poet's Fate?
His idle Plans you carelesly survey,
And find but scanty Interest from a Play;
For Poor Returns he plies his tortur'd Brain,
And great Examples swell the Scene in vain.
So many diff'rent Schemes your Minds engage,
You've scarce left room for any on the Stage.
Whilst Pulpits war, and Stock-jobbers debate,
How doubtful is the slighted Poet's Fate?
His idle Plans you carelesly survey,
And find but scanty Interest from a Play;
For Poor Returns he plies his tortur'd Brain,
And great Examples swell the Scene in vain.
Is this the Land of Freedom and of Sense?
And shall the pining Muse be banish'd hence?
Once your fair Fav'rite, now discourag'd lie,
And British Poetry in Britain die?
Shall then the Tragick Bard unheeded tell
How Ammon conquer'd, or how Cæsar fell?
How Tyrants by their own Injustice bleed,
And happy Realms have been by great Deliv'rers freed,
Just Parallels of Times before you cast,
To teach the present—while he draws the past?
And shall the pining Muse be banish'd hence?
Once your fair Fav'rite, now discourag'd lie,
And British Poetry in Britain die?
Shall then the Tragick Bard unheeded tell
How Ammon conquer'd, or how Cæsar fell?
xii
And happy Realms have been by great Deliv'rers freed,
Just Parallels of Times before you cast,
To teach the present—while he draws the past?
Recover with your Taste your antient Fame,
Nor let what was your Glory be your Shame;
Let it not now reproach you to have made
Those Pens that us'd to celebrate—upbraid.
Nor let what was your Glory be your Shame;
Let it not now reproach you to have made
Those Pens that us'd to celebrate—upbraid.
In spight of Disadvantages like these,
Our Author yet has humble Hopes to please;
By proper Strokes he studies to impart
Instructive Morals to the generous Heart.
If to Despotick Sway you scorn to bow,
He bids you shew your just Abhorrence now:
His Captives—(if Distress commands a Tear)
Can never sue in vain for Mercy here.
If he desires, account it not his Pride,
That standard Judgement should his Cause decide;
His Faults he owns, if Men of Sense condemn,
For Wounds are Wounds of Honour given by them.
Attend impartial to his honest Claim,
Applaud with Justice, and with Justice blame.
Our Author yet has humble Hopes to please;
By proper Strokes he studies to impart
Instructive Morals to the generous Heart.
If to Despotick Sway you scorn to bow,
He bids you shew your just Abhorrence now:
His Captives—(if Distress commands a Tear)
Can never sue in vain for Mercy here.
If he desires, account it not his Pride,
That standard Judgement should his Cause decide;
His Faults he owns, if Men of Sense condemn,
For Wounds are Wounds of Honour given by them.
Attend impartial to his honest Claim,
Applaud with Justice, and with Justice blame.
| The Imperial Captives | |