 | The fairies |  |
4
PROLOGUE,
Written and spoken by Mr. Garrick.Enter—Interrupting the Band of Music.
A moment
stop your tuneful Fingers, pray,
While Here, as usual, I my Duty pay,
[To the Audience.
Don't frown, my Friends, [to the Band]
you soon shall melt again;
But, if not There, is felt each dying Strain,
Poor I shall Speak and you will Scrape in vain.
To see me Now, you think the strangest Thing!
For, like Friend Benedick, I cannot sing!
Yet in this Prologue, cry but you, Coraggio!
I'll Speak you both a Jig, and an Adagio.
While Here, as usual, I my Duty pay,
[To the Audience.
Don't frown, my Friends, [to the Band]
you soon shall melt again;
But, if not There, is felt each dying Strain,
Poor I shall Speak and you will Scrape in vain.
To see me Now, you think the strangest Thing!
For, like Friend Benedick, I cannot sing!
Yet in this Prologue, cry but you, Coraggio!
I'll Speak you both a Jig, and an Adagio.
A Persian King, as Persian Tales relate,
Oft' went disguis'd, to hear the People prate;
So, curious I, sometimes steal forth, incog,
To hear what Critics croak of me—King Log.
Three Nights ago, I heard a Tête á Tête
Which fix'd, at once, our English Opera's Fate:
One was a Youth born here, but flush from Rome,
The other born abroad, but here his Home;
And first the English Foreigner began,
Who thus address'd the foreign Englishman:
An English Opera! 'tis not to be borne;
I, both my Country, and their Music scorn,
Oh, damn their Ally Croakers, and their Early-Horn.
Signor si—bat sons—wors recitativo:
Il tutto, è bestiale e cativo,
This said, I made my Exit, full of Terrors!
And now ask Mercy, for the following Errors:
Oft' went disguis'd, to hear the People prate;
So, curious I, sometimes steal forth, incog,
To hear what Critics croak of me—King Log.
Three Nights ago, I heard a Tête á Tête
Which fix'd, at once, our English Opera's Fate:
One was a Youth born here, but flush from Rome,
The other born abroad, but here his Home;
And first the English Foreigner began,
Who thus address'd the foreign Englishman:
An English Opera! 'tis not to be borne;
I, both my Country, and their Music scorn,
Oh, damn their Ally Croakers, and their Early-Horn.
Signor si—bat sons—wors recitativo:
Il tutto, è bestiale e cativo,
This said, I made my Exit, full of Terrors!
And now ask Mercy, for the following Errors:
5
Excuse us first, for foolishly supposing,
Your Countryman could please you in composing;
An Op'ra too!—play'd by an English Band,
Wrote in a Language which you understand—
I dare not say, WHO wrote it—I could tell ye,
To soften Matters—Signor Shakespearelli:
This aukward Drama—(I confess th' Offence)
Is guilty too, of Poetry and Sense:
And then the Price we take—you'll all abuse it,
So low, so unlike Op'ras—but excuse it,
We'll mend that Fault, whenever you shall chuse it.
Our last Mischance, and worse than all the rest,
Which turns the whole Performance to a Jest,
OUR Singers all are well, and all will do their best.
But why would this rash Fool, this Englishman,
Attempt an Op'ra?—'tis the strangest Plan!
Your Countryman could please you in composing;
An Op'ra too!—play'd by an English Band,
Wrote in a Language which you understand—
I dare not say, WHO wrote it—I could tell ye,
To soften Matters—Signor Shakespearelli:
This aukward Drama—(I confess th' Offence)
Is guilty too, of Poetry and Sense:
And then the Price we take—you'll all abuse it,
So low, so unlike Op'ras—but excuse it,
We'll mend that Fault, whenever you shall chuse it.
Our last Mischance, and worse than all the rest,
Which turns the whole Performance to a Jest,
OUR Singers all are well, and all will do their best.
But why would this rash Fool, this Englishman,
Attempt an Op'ra?—'tis the strangest Plan!
Struck with the Wonders of his Master's Art,
Whose sacred Dramas shake and melt the Heart,
Whose Heaven-born Strains the coldest Breast inspire,
Whose Chorus-Thunder sets the Soul on Fire!
Inflam'd, astonish'd! at those magic Airs,
When Samson groans, and frantic Saul despairs;
The Pupil wrote—his Work is now before ye,
And waits your Stamp of Infamy, or Glory!
Yet, ere his Errors and his Faults are known,
He says, those Faults, those Errors, are his own;
If through the Clouds appear some glimm'ring Rays,
They're Sparks he caught from his great Master's Blaze!
Whose sacred Dramas shake and melt the Heart,
Whose Heaven-born Strains the coldest Breast inspire,
Whose Chorus-Thunder sets the Soul on Fire!
Inflam'd, astonish'd! at those magic Airs,
When Samson groans, and frantic Saul despairs;
The Pupil wrote—his Work is now before ye,
And waits your Stamp of Infamy, or Glory!
Yet, ere his Errors and his Faults are known,
He says, those Faults, those Errors, are his own;
If through the Clouds appear some glimm'ring Rays,
They're Sparks he caught from his great Master's Blaze!
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