 | The tragedy of King Richard the II |  |
PROLOGUE; Spoken by Mr. Ryan.
The
Tragick Muse aspires by various Ways
To catch the Soul, and to command your Praise;
Oft, breathing War, to generous Acts She warms,
And animates your Martial Breasts to Arms:
Then, as the personated Hero fights,
Your Bosoms kindle in your Country's Rights.
Our Author labours in an humbler Strain,
But hopes to sooth you with a pleasing Pain;
To move your Hearts, and force your Eyes to flow
With Tears, drawn from an English Monarch's Woe.
Justly his Pen's mistaken Task he'll own,
If you can see a Prince, without a Groan,
Forc'd by his Subjects to renounce his Throne.
If recent Times more fresh Examples bring,
How we can murther, or depose a King,
Fearful of Censure, and offended Law,
The Muse presumes no Parallels to draw;
Nor aims to make the sullen, factious Stage
Bellow with Anti-Revolution Rage.
From Richard's Ruin, only, she intends
To wound your Souls, and make you Richard's Friends.
Immortal Shakespear on this Tale began,
And wrote it in a rude, Historick Plan,
On his rich Fund our Author builds his Play,
Keeps all his Gold, and throws his Dross away;
Safe in this Aid, he can no Thunder dread,
Fenc'd with the God's own Laurel round his Head.
To catch the Soul, and to command your Praise;
Oft, breathing War, to generous Acts She warms,
And animates your Martial Breasts to Arms:
Then, as the personated Hero fights,
Your Bosoms kindle in your Country's Rights.
Our Author labours in an humbler Strain,
But hopes to sooth you with a pleasing Pain;
To move your Hearts, and force your Eyes to flow
With Tears, drawn from an English Monarch's Woe.
Justly his Pen's mistaken Task he'll own,
If you can see a Prince, without a Groan,
Forc'd by his Subjects to renounce his Throne.
If recent Times more fresh Examples bring,
How we can murther, or depose a King,
Fearful of Censure, and offended Law,
The Muse presumes no Parallels to draw;
Nor aims to make the sullen, factious Stage
Bellow with Anti-Revolution Rage.
From Richard's Ruin, only, she intends
To wound your Souls, and make you Richard's Friends.
Immortal Shakespear on this Tale began,
And wrote it in a rude, Historick Plan,
On his rich Fund our Author builds his Play,
Keeps all his Gold, and throws his Dross away;
Safe in this Aid, he can no Thunder dread,
Fenc'd with the God's own Laurel round his Head.
| The tragedy of King Richard the II | |