 | Tancred and Sigismunda |  |
PROLOGUE.
Bold
is the Man! who, in this nicer Age,
Presumes to tread the chaste corrected Stage.
Now, with gay tinsel Arts, we can no more
Conceal the Want of Nature's sterling Ore.
Our Spells are vanish'd, broke our magic Wand,
That us'd to waft you over Sea and Land.
Before your Light the fairy People fade,
The Demons fly—The Ghost itself is laid.
In vain of martial Scenes the loud Alarms,
The mighty Prompter thundering out to Arms,
The Playhouse Posse clattering from afar,
The close-wedg'd Battle, and the Din of War.
Now, even the Senate seldom we convene;
The yawning Fathers nod behind the Scene.
Your Taste rejects the glittering false Sublime,
To sigh in Metaphor, and die in Rhime.
High Rant is tumbled from his Gallery Throne:
Description, Dreams—nay Similies are gone.
Presumes to tread the chaste corrected Stage.
Now, with gay tinsel Arts, we can no more
Conceal the Want of Nature's sterling Ore.
Our Spells are vanish'd, broke our magic Wand,
That us'd to waft you over Sea and Land.
Before your Light the fairy People fade,
The Demons fly—The Ghost itself is laid.
In vain of martial Scenes the loud Alarms,
The mighty Prompter thundering out to Arms,
The Playhouse Posse clattering from afar,
The close-wedg'd Battle, and the Din of War.
Now, even the Senate seldom we convene;
The yawning Fathers nod behind the Scene.
Your Taste rejects the glittering false Sublime,
To sigh in Metaphor, and die in Rhime.
High Rant is tumbled from his Gallery Throne:
Description, Dreams—nay Similies are gone.
What shall we then? to please you how devise?
Whose Judgment sits not in your Ears and Eyes.
Thrice happy! could we catch great Shakespear's Art,
To trace the deep Recesses of the Heart;
His simple plain Sublime, to which is given
To strike the Soul with darted Flame from Heaven:
Could we awake soft Otway's tender Woe,
The Pomp of Verse and golden Lines of Rowe.
Whose Judgment sits not in your Ears and Eyes.
Thrice happy! could we catch great Shakespear's Art,
To trace the deep Recesses of the Heart;
His simple plain Sublime, to which is given
To strike the Soul with darted Flame from Heaven:
Could we awake soft Otway's tender Woe,
The Pomp of Verse and golden Lines of Rowe.
We to your Hearts apply: let them attend;
Before their silent candid Bar we bend.
If warm'd they listen, 'tis our noblest Praise;
If cold, they wither all the Muse's Bays.
Before their silent candid Bar we bend.
If warm'd they listen, 'tis our noblest Praise;
If cold, they wither all the Muse's Bays.
| Tancred and Sigismunda | |