 | Sethona |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. REDDISH. Written by Mr. CUMBERLAND.
In
classic times, as learned authors say,
When Greek or Roman wits produc'd a play,
The herald Prologue, 'ere the sports began,
Fairly stept forward, and announc'd the plan:
In few plain words he ran the fable through,
And, without favour, publish'd all he knew.
An honest custom: for the plan was clear,
The scene was simple, and the Muse sincere;
No tawdry fashions warp'd the public taste,
The times were candid, and the stage was chaste.
When Greek or Roman wits produc'd a play,
The herald Prologue, 'ere the sports began,
Fairly stept forward, and announc'd the plan:
In few plain words he ran the fable through,
And, without favour, publish'd all he knew.
An honest custom: for the plan was clear,
The scene was simple, and the Muse sincere;
No tawdry fashions warp'd the public taste,
The times were candid, and the stage was chaste.
Can we expect, in these enlighten'd days,
A courtly age should hold such vulgar ways?
Or that a blabbing prologue should disclose
Scenes, which no Muse of fashion ever shows.
No, Sirs,—Sethona is the lady's name—
She lives at Memphis—of unsullied fame:
A Tyrant woo'd her—but she lik'd another,
And once 'twas fear'd her lover was her brother.
As for the rest, a little patience borrow,
The Chronicle will tell you all to-morrow.
Authors are now so over modest grown,
They publish all men's writings, but their own.
A courtly age should hold such vulgar ways?
Or that a blabbing prologue should disclose
Scenes, which no Muse of fashion ever shows.
No, Sirs,—Sethona is the lady's name—
She lives at Memphis—of unsullied fame:
A Tyrant woo'd her—but she lik'd another,
And once 'twas fear'd her lover was her brother.
As for the rest, a little patience borrow,
The Chronicle will tell you all to-morrow.
Authors are now so over modest grown,
They publish all men's writings, but their own.
But let no living bard conceive offence,
Nor take the general in a partial sense.
Peace to all such! the lab'ring bee must feed
From flow'r to flow'r; perchance from weed to weed;
And should the comb unwelcome flavour yield,
The fault's not in the fabric, but the field;
The critic wasp, mean while upon the wing,
(An insect fraught with nothing but a sting)
Disturbs t'industrious hive, for malice sake,
Marring that honey, which he cannot make.
Nor take the general in a partial sense.
Peace to all such! the lab'ring bee must feed
From flow'r to flow'r; perchance from weed to weed;
And should the comb unwelcome flavour yield,
The fault's not in the fabric, but the field;
(An insect fraught with nothing but a sting)
Disturbs t'industrious hive, for malice sake,
Marring that honey, which he cannot make.
An absent bard, engag'd in distant war,
This night appears by proxy at your bar:
As o'er Arabia's wilds he took his way,
From sultry Ormus and the realms of day,
His active mind, superior to its toil,
Struck out these scenes upon the burning soil.
No cooling grottoes, no umbrageous groves,
To win the Graces, and allure the Loves;
No Heliconian fount wherein to dip,
And slake the burning fever on his lip;
Before him all is desart, waste, and dry,
Above him flames the tyrant of the sky;
Around his temples gath'ring whirlwinds fight,
And drifts of scorching dust involve the light:
Oh, snatch your Poet from impending death,
And on his shrine we'll hang his votive wreath.
This night appears by proxy at your bar:
As o'er Arabia's wilds he took his way,
From sultry Ormus and the realms of day,
His active mind, superior to its toil,
Struck out these scenes upon the burning soil.
No cooling grottoes, no umbrageous groves,
To win the Graces, and allure the Loves;
No Heliconian fount wherein to dip,
And slake the burning fever on his lip;
Before him all is desart, waste, and dry,
Above him flames the tyrant of the sky;
Around his temples gath'ring whirlwinds fight,
And drifts of scorching dust involve the light:
Oh, snatch your Poet from impending death,
And on his shrine we'll hang his votive wreath.
| Sethona | |