 | Abra-Mule : Or, Love and Empire |  |
PROLOGUE, Spoken by Mr. Betterton.
What
various Thoughts a Poet's Breast divide,
When brought before an Audience, to be try'd!
Guilty of Scribling, with beseeching Hands,
Before your Bar the Malefactor stands.
Now hopes 'twill please, now doubts 'twill prove but dull;
Mourns a thin Pit, yet dreads it when 'tis full.
These are at best the anxious Writers cares:
But he, who now your fatal Censure fears,
Has no great Man to Countenance his Muse,
And shield him from the Arts which Rival Factions use.
No necessary Friends to start Applause,
T'o'erpower Ill-nature, and support his Cause.
Then 'tis all Tragedy which he prepares,
With no refreshing interval of Farce.
Nay, but one Song; his Numbers rarely chime,
Nor bless the Gall'ries with the Sweets of Rhime
Few Actors are to fall, no Ghosts to rise;
No Fustian roars, nor mimick Lightning flies;
No Thunder from his Heroes, or the Skies.
When brought before an Audience, to be try'd!
Guilty of Scribling, with beseeching Hands,
Before your Bar the Malefactor stands.
Now hopes 'twill please, now doubts 'twill prove but dull;
Mourns a thin Pit, yet dreads it when 'tis full.
These are at best the anxious Writers cares:
But he, who now your fatal Censure fears,
Has no great Man to Countenance his Muse,
And shield him from the Arts which Rival Factions use.
No necessary Friends to start Applause,
T'o'erpower Ill-nature, and support his Cause.
Then 'tis all Tragedy which he prepares,
With no refreshing interval of Farce.
Nay, but one Song; his Numbers rarely chime,
Nor bless the Gall'ries with the Sweets of Rhime
Few Actors are to fall, no Ghosts to rise;
No Fustian roars, nor mimick Lightning flies;
No Thunder from his Heroes, or the Skies.
With all these Disadvantages oppress'd,
He still has Hopes, and makes his bold Request
To Men of Sense; and here are none, I know,
But either are, or think at least they're so.
To you, with modest Awe, he dares to speak;
Will not assume too much, yet scorns to sneak.
He boasts not of his Genius, or his Rules;
Nor insolently calls his Judges, Fools.
Yet to Desert disclaims not all Pretence;
To be so Modest would be Impudence.
For surely his Presumption must be great,
Who dares invite his Betters to no Treat.
He not expects you should gross Dulness flatter,
Yet leaves you room enough to shew good Nature.
Begs you would come, of all ill Passion eas'd;
Patient to hear, and willing to be pleas'd.
Cowards and Fools are barbarous, and think
All Wit and Valour is to damn and sink;
But Weakness in Distress still finds Defence
From Men of Courage, and from Men of Sense.
He still has Hopes, and makes his bold Request
To Men of Sense; and here are none, I know,
But either are, or think at least they're so.
Will not assume too much, yet scorns to sneak.
He boasts not of his Genius, or his Rules;
Nor insolently calls his Judges, Fools.
Yet to Desert disclaims not all Pretence;
To be so Modest would be Impudence.
For surely his Presumption must be great,
Who dares invite his Betters to no Treat.
He not expects you should gross Dulness flatter,
Yet leaves you room enough to shew good Nature.
Begs you would come, of all ill Passion eas'd;
Patient to hear, and willing to be pleas'd.
Cowards and Fools are barbarous, and think
All Wit and Valour is to damn and sink;
But Weakness in Distress still finds Defence
From Men of Courage, and from Men of Sense.
| Abra-Mule : Or, Love and Empire | |