The Countess of Salisbury A Tragedy |
PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY Mr. WESTON, in the Character of a TEAGUE. |
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 | The Countess of Salisbury |  |
PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY Mr. WESTON, in the Character of a TEAGUE.
My jewels, I'm come to spake in the behalf—
Hoot, Devil burn you all, you makes me laugh,
Upon my soul now I don't take it well in you:
Arra, be easy, till I'm after telling you:
Hoot, Devil burn you all, you makes me laugh,
Upon my soul now I don't take it well in you:
Arra, be easy, till I'm after telling you:
Smit with the love of glory and of pelf,
To night, a bard from Dublin its ownself,
Has brought a play here for your approbation,
A very pretty thing by my salvation—
If you'll trust Irish evidence I mean—
I can't the story very well explain;
But it's about a Countess and an Earl,
The Countess is a mighty honest girl;
But there's a villain with a damn'd cramp'd name,
Makes such proposhals—'tis a burning shame—
Another too—a Knight—bekeys as why—
But hould you know, you'll see it by and by,
And then 'tis time enough to tell the plot.
O, but that's true, I'd like to have forgot,
The dresses—'Pon my conscience in my days
I never saw their peer, they're all a blaze.
Then there's a child, the sweetest little rogue—
Only excuse a trifling spice of a brogue—
He'll make you cry your eyes out, I'll be bound—
'Tis Ireland is the true poetic ground.
The Muses—Phœbus, heath'nish cant I loath!
What's Mount Parnassus to the Hill of Howth?
Or all the scenes each foolish poet paints—
O bub bub-boo! give me the Isle of Saints.
Turn up your noses, cavil now and carp—
Musha, I'm sure our emblem is the harp.
But stop, the bell rings. Fait they'll soon begin;
'Tis time for me to be a going in.
I take my lave then—but dear craters mind—
Pray to our Irish poetry be kind:
'Tis a new manufacture in effect—
And yours, my sowls t'encourage and protect;
No critic custom then exacted be,
Pass it like Irish linen, duty free.
To night, a bard from Dublin its ownself,
Has brought a play here for your approbation,
A very pretty thing by my salvation—
If you'll trust Irish evidence I mean—
I can't the story very well explain;
But it's about a Countess and an Earl,
The Countess is a mighty honest girl;
But there's a villain with a damn'd cramp'd name,
Makes such proposhals—'tis a burning shame—
Another too—a Knight—bekeys as why—
But hould you know, you'll see it by and by,
And then 'tis time enough to tell the plot.
O, but that's true, I'd like to have forgot,
The dresses—'Pon my conscience in my days
I never saw their peer, they're all a blaze.
Then there's a child, the sweetest little rogue—
Only excuse a trifling spice of a brogue—
He'll make you cry your eyes out, I'll be bound—
'Tis Ireland is the true poetic ground.
The Muses—Phœbus, heath'nish cant I loath!
What's Mount Parnassus to the Hill of Howth?
Or all the scenes each foolish poet paints—
O bub bub-boo! give me the Isle of Saints.
Turn up your noses, cavil now and carp—
Musha, I'm sure our emblem is the harp.
But stop, the bell rings. Fait they'll soon begin;
'Tis time for me to be a going in.
I take my lave then—but dear craters mind—
Pray to our Irish poetry be kind:
'Tis a new manufacture in effect—
And yours, my sowls t'encourage and protect;
No critic custom then exacted be,
Pass it like Irish linen, duty free.
| The Countess of Salisbury | |