 | Orestes |  |
PROLOGUE; Spoken by Mr. WALKER.
In
Numbers, sweet as Harmony could form,
CIRCE was wont your Fathers' Ears to charm;
The fair Inchantress stole on ev'ry Heart;
And her Spells triumph'd in the Poet's Art.
But then, obsequious to a jingling Age,
(When Rhyme, that Clog to Sense, usurp'd the Stage;)
The Youthful Bard obey'd the Mode of course,
And sacrific'd to Fashion half his Force.
With happy Ease he did the Couplets square,
But Passion languish'd in the Verse's Care:
Enfeebling Rhyme a double Burthen hung;
First cramp'd his Pow'rs, and then his Actor's Tongue.
CIRCE was wont your Fathers' Ears to charm;
The fair Inchantress stole on ev'ry Heart;
And her Spells triumph'd in the Poet's Art.
But then, obsequious to a jingling Age,
(When Rhyme, that Clog to Sense, usurp'd the Stage;)
The Youthful Bard obey'd the Mode of course,
And sacrific'd to Fashion half his Force.
With happy Ease he did the Couplets square,
But Passion languish'd in the Verse's Care:
Enfeebling Rhyme a double Burthen hung;
First cramp'd his Pow'rs, and then his Actor's Tongue.
But wiser Time has since enlarg'd the Bounds,
And chas'd that dull Identity of Sounds.
In Mind, and Taste, we threw off servile Sway;
At once went Slavery and Rhyme away.
And chas'd that dull Identity of Sounds.
In Mind, and Taste, we threw off servile Sway;
At once went Slavery and Rhyme away.
Since Custom then has master'd that Restraint,
Permit our Bard in freer Lines to paint
Circe a-new: And, tho' despoil'd of Rhyme,
Allow her Wand, and think her still sublime.
If not o'er-partial, or too fondly vain,
Our Author may prejudge his humble Strain,
He hopes to show some Beauties in Undress;
Which, tho' not glaring, may not please the less.
Permit our Bard in freer Lines to paint
Circe a-new: And, tho' despoil'd of Rhyme,
Allow her Wand, and think her still sublime.
If not o'er-partial, or too fondly vain,
Our Author may prejudge his humble Strain,
He hopes to show some Beauties in Undress;
Which, tho' not glaring, may not please the less.
Conscious, how hard by Force of Scene to move
Your Breasts to Pity, or inflame to Love;
He therefore calls up other Charms in Aid;
For Song and Dance have Magick to persuade!
Rich in these Helps, and in the Painter's Art,
He courts Applause, which comes not from the Heart.
But if some Gleams of sober Sense appear,
Forgive It for What else is blended here.
Your Breasts to Pity, or inflame to Love;
He therefore calls up other Charms in Aid;
For Song and Dance have Magick to persuade!
Rich in these Helps, and in the Painter's Art,
He courts Applause, which comes not from the Heart.
But if some Gleams of sober Sense appear,
Forgive It for What else is blended here.
| Orestes | |