Julia ; Or, The Italian Lover A Tragedy |
PROLOGUE;
Written by Edmond Malone, Esq.
Spoken by Mr. Kemble. |
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 | Julia ; Or, The Italian Lover |  |
PROLOGUE; Written by Edmond Malone, Esq. Spoken by Mr. Kemble.
From Thespis' days to this enlighten'd hour,
The stage has shewn the dire abuse of power;
What mighty mischief from ambition springs;
The fate of heroes, and the fall of kings.
But these high themes, howe'er adorn'd by art,
Have seldom gain'd the passes of the heart:
Calm we behold the pompous mimick woe,
Unmov'd by sorrows we can never know.
Far other feelings in the soul arise,
When private griefs arrest our ears and eyes;
When the false friend, and blameless, suffering wife,
Reflect the image of domestick life:
And still more wide the sympathy, more keen,
When to each breast responsive is the scene;
And the fine cords that every heart intwine,
Dilated, vibrate with the glowing line.—
Such is the theme, that now demands your ear,
And claims the silent plaudit of a tear.
One tyrant passion all mankind must prove;
The balm or poison of our lives—is love.
Love's sovereign sway extends o'er every clime,
Nor owns a limit or of space or time.
For love, the generous fair one hath sustain'd
More poignant ills than ever poet feign'd.
For love, the maid partakes her lover's tomb,
Or pines long life out in sad soothless gloom.
Ne'er shall Oblivion shroud the Grecian wife
,
Who gave her own, to save a husband's life.
With her contending, see our Edward's bride,
Imbibing poison from his mangled side.
Nor less, though proud of intellectual sway,
Does haughty man the tyrant power obey:
From youth to age by love's wild tempest tost,
For love, even mighty kingdoms has he lost.
Vain—wealth, and fame, and Fortune's fost'ring care ,
If no fond breast the splendid blessings share;
And, each day's bustling pageantry once past,
There, only there, his bliss is found at last.
The stage has shewn the dire abuse of power;
What mighty mischief from ambition springs;
The fate of heroes, and the fall of kings.
But these high themes, howe'er adorn'd by art,
Have seldom gain'd the passes of the heart:
Calm we behold the pompous mimick woe,
Unmov'd by sorrows we can never know.
Far other feelings in the soul arise,
When private griefs arrest our ears and eyes;
When the false friend, and blameless, suffering wife,
Reflect the image of domestick life:
And still more wide the sympathy, more keen,
When to each breast responsive is the scene;
And the fine cords that every heart intwine,
Dilated, vibrate with the glowing line.—
Such is the theme, that now demands your ear,
And claims the silent plaudit of a tear.
One tyrant passion all mankind must prove;
The balm or poison of our lives—is love.
Love's sovereign sway extends o'er every clime,
Nor owns a limit or of space or time.
For love, the generous fair one hath sustain'd
More poignant ills than ever poet feign'd.
For love, the maid partakes her lover's tomb,
Or pines long life out in sad soothless gloom.
Who gave her own, to save a husband's life.
With her contending, see our Edward's bride,
Imbibing poison from his mangled side.
Nor less, though proud of intellectual sway,
Does haughty man the tyrant power obey:
From youth to age by love's wild tempest tost,
For love, even mighty kingdoms has he lost.
Vain—wealth, and fame, and Fortune's fost'ring care ,
If no fond breast the splendid blessings share;
And, each day's bustling pageantry once past,
There, only there, his bliss is found at last.
For woes fictitious oft your tears have flow'd;
Your cheek for wrongs imaginary glow'd.
To-night our poet means not to assail
Your throbbing bosoms with a fancy'd tale.
Scarce sixty suns their annual course have roll'd,
Since all was real that our scenes unfold.
To touch your breasts with no unpleasing pain,
The Muse's magick bids it live again:
Bids mingled characters, as once in life,
Resume their functions, and renew their strife;
While pride, revenge, and jealousy's wild rage,
Rouse all the genius of the impassion'd stage.
Your cheek for wrongs imaginary glow'd.
To-night our poet means not to assail
Your throbbing bosoms with a fancy'd tale.
Scarce sixty suns their annual course have roll'd,
Since all was real that our scenes unfold.
To touch your breasts with no unpleasing pain,
The Muse's magick bids it live again:
Bids mingled characters, as once in life,
Resume their functions, and renew their strife;
While pride, revenge, and jealousy's wild rage,
Rouse all the genius of the impassion'd stage.
| Julia ; Or, The Italian Lover | |