 | The Conquest of Spain |  |
THE PROLOGUE.
How bold a Venture does our Author make!And what strange Measures to his Wishes take?
How cou'd he hope the Tragick Scene shou'd please,
When Art's a Jest, and Sence a loath'd Disease?
What prospect of Advantage cou'd he find
In the just painted Passions of the Mind,
And the sublimer Draughts of Human Kind?
Who listens now to Nature's charming Voice,
When all are pleas'd with empty Show and Noise,
Loud tumid Bombast, or low Farce and Dance,
The far-fetch'd Trash of Italy and France.
What various Dishes for you have we drest,
And what strange Olio's have set out our Feast?
Yet these please now your vitious Pallates more
Than your wise Sires the Tragick Muse of Yore.
The Tragick Muse, the Glory of our Nation,
Is thrown Aside, Despis'd, like an old Fashion.
In vain with Toyl the artful Bards have strove
Your fickle Taste to please, and to improve.
All this our Author knew, yet still wou'd on,
And tempt the Dangers he was warn'd to shun.
No dire Prediction cou'd his Mind depress,
And sure his Courage merits some Success.
Bravely resolv'd, he does his Sentence wait;
Nor dreads your Frowns, nor wou'd provoke your Hate;
But owns your Power, and hopes a prosperous Fate.
| The Conquest of Spain | |