 | Conspiracy |  |
PROLOGUE.
This night with dread unusual we appear,(For this has been a very damning year)
Establish'd fame perhaps in vain we bring,
Since rigid justice is an awful thing,
Awful and hateful, human but in part,
All frown, an outside man, without a heart.
Such you may see in every street you pass,
Just as like men, in plaister, stone, or brass.
Our early Prologues in less cautious times,
Rail'd at the audience in permitted rhymes,
Faults there might be, they own'd, but then wou'd swear,
Of faults or beauties, you no judges were.
As peers, by brother peers alone are tried,
Poets alone, on poets shou'd decide.
With surly Ben this dogma first began,
So in succession to pert Colley ran.
John Dryden, with a crab stick of harsh wit,
Rejoiced to drub the Hydra of the pit.
Tho' little then was right, and much amiss,
Not one of all the venom'd tongues durst hiss.
Almanzor and mad Maximin went down.
Now, by inversion ten times more polite,
The poet's always wrong, the critic right.
Nay, some have found a more enlighten'd way,
And boldly censure who ne'er saw the play.
This mayn't perhaps be justice to the letter,
To see is well, but inspiration's better.
Of old, the vehicles of wit were scarce,
Men judged upon the spot of play or farce.
By no concocted spite the piece was torn,
The short lived Virus died where it was born.
No daily column then was gladly seen,
By envy raised, and scribled o'er by spleen.
And sure if pleas'd or griev'd, we little gain,
By reasoning back the pleasure or the pain.
Still safely we may trust the feeling part,
But never set the head against the heart.
For various causes you frequent the scene,
Some to dispel, but more to indulge the spleen.
Some fly a dun, and some a railing wife,
And lose the real, infictitious life.
A passive mistress many here pursue,
But most we see have nothing else to do.
Others prefer, the days dull business done,
To yawn in company than quite alone.
Nor passions, feign'd or real e'er infest 'em!
In times not long gone by, a noble peer,
(Unlike the sprightly race who now trip here)
Four previous footmen his high state express,
And gorgeous as a satrap was his dress.
No household fowl on maple perch repos'd,
As innocent of thought, more sweetly dozed.
Warm in his muff, with periwig for cap,
Here he indulged one discontinuous nap.
Yates, Woodward, Cibber, Garrick charm'd in vain,
Kind Morpheus held him in his softer chain.
Just as the curtain drop'd, he heard it said,
A well known stentor of the stage was dead.
“I'm glad on't (cries my lord) and why do you think?
“He roar'd so loud, I cou'd not sleep one wink.”
This night at times may kinder slumbers seize you,
Sleep when we're dull, and wake when we can please you.
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