 | The Fate of Sparta ; or, The Rival Kings |  |
PROLOGUE; WRITTEN BY MRS. COWLEY. SPOKEN BY MR. WROUGHTON.
To ask your favour, we're by custom bound—
Thus Prologue bows before you to the ground.
But interchange of favours, we are told,
Is a choice method to make friendship hold.
My gift is this;—those chilly wintry nights,
Whilst the frost glitters, and the north wind bites,
I'll waft you to the gentlest summer skies,
Where rose-buds swell, and the soft zephyr flies;
Where the bright sun, with scarce diminish'd ray,
November's month bids charm like florid May;
Where, beneath myrtle shades the lover dies,
Whilst gales, with fragrance fraught, perfume his sighs—
To Greece I welcome ye from Drury-lane,
Where taste, and arts first rear'd th'immortal fane.
Thus Prologue bows before you to the ground.
But interchange of favours, we are told,
Is a choice method to make friendship hold.
My gift is this;—those chilly wintry nights,
Whilst the frost glitters, and the north wind bites,
I'll waft you to the gentlest summer skies,
Where rose-buds swell, and the soft zephyr flies;
Where the bright sun, with scarce diminish'd ray,
November's month bids charm like florid May;
Where, beneath myrtle shades the lover dies,
Whilst gales, with fragrance fraught, perfume his sighs—
To Greece I welcome ye from Drury-lane,
Where taste, and arts first rear'd th'immortal fane.
You've heard of Spartan boys, who let young foxes
Feed on their blood, placid as beaus in boxes
Sans shriek, or groan. You've heard of sable broth
More priz'd than rich iced creams, and luscious froth;
With many other monstrous—noble things,
At which more naughty times have had their flings.
But long posterior to that virtuous day,
Th'events were born on which we found our play.
Feed on their blood, placid as beaus in boxes
Sans shriek, or groan. You've heard of sable broth
More priz'd than rich iced creams, and luscious froth;
With many other monstrous—noble things,
At which more naughty times have had their flings.
But long posterior to that virtuous day,
Th'events were born on which we found our play.
Sparta conceiv'd a whim to be polite,
Black broth, and bosom'd foxes took their flight;
Then luxury her flood-gates open'd wide,
And fashion onward roll'd its heady tide;
Plain dress and frugal meals soon dropt their yokes,
And godlike Spartans—liv'd like other folks;
Turn'd fidlers, brokers, merchants, gamed and betted,
This boasting what he won—this what he netted.
Ladies their Op'ra—Boxers had their stage,
And Spartan Humphries' soon became the rage;
Their placemen sinecures could ne'er refuse,
And zeal-infected Lords, at times turn'd Jews.
Black broth, and bosom'd foxes took their flight;
Then luxury her flood-gates open'd wide,
And fashion onward roll'd its heady tide;
Plain dress and frugal meals soon dropt their yokes,
And godlike Spartans—liv'd like other folks;
Turn'd fidlers, brokers, merchants, gamed and betted,
This boasting what he won—this what he netted.
Ladies their Op'ra—Boxers had their stage,
And Spartan Humphries' soon became the rage;
Their placemen sinecures could ne'er refuse,
And zeal-infected Lords, at times turn'd Jews.
Their Doctors sage then hit upon a plan,
To mend the weak degen'rate creature Man.
They bad two monarchs wear the splendid crown,
Castor and Pollux like—this up—that down?
[In another voice
Oh no, they both at once must mount the throne,
And subject slaves, in double slav'ry groan.
To mend the weak degen'rate creature Man.
They bad two monarchs wear the splendid crown,
Castor and Pollux like—this up—that down?
[In another voice
Oh no, they both at once must mount the throne,
And subject slaves, in double slav'ry groan.
'Twas wise, no doubt—yet this too pass'd away,
But first burst forth the deeds which fill our play.
The ground-work true—a little fancy grant,
Where fact had in its bounties been but scant.
Poets will fib, all nations have allow'd it;
And ours with blushing terror has avow'd it.
Oh pardon where you can, and if you please,
This anxious hour precedes a night of ease.
But first burst forth the deeds which fill our play.
The ground-work true—a little fancy grant,
Where fact had in its bounties been but scant.
Poets will fib, all nations have allow'd it;
And ours with blushing terror has avow'd it.
Oh pardon where you can, and if you please,
This anxious hour precedes a night of ease.
| The Fate of Sparta ; or, The Rival Kings | |