 | Conspiracy |  |
PROLOGUE.
Tho' he pretends no commerce with the skies,A perfect stranger to deep mysteries,
Nor is astrologer enough to make
Predictions for a new year's Almanack,
Yet for his play, the poet sees with sorrow,
And now foretells, what all may see to-morrow.
Tho' here, where genuine sense with candour reigns
Fair approbation crown his tragic strains,
(For oft this favour'd muse has been before you,
Always to thank, but never to implore you)
A hundred sterner critics still remain,
To damn his labours, and your taste arraign.
In posts, gazettes, and chronicles they rage,
And failing to adorn, affright the stage.
Turn to the usual column, there you'll see,
What those sage Delphic oracles decree.
First for the fable; “that's a flimzy tale,
“With unsupported characters, dull, stale,
“Not one generic, or original.
“The situations want dramatic art,
“Such feeble patho's ne'er can touch the heart.
“This, Ha! is Richard, and that Oh! is Lear,
The Pshaws, and Tuts are Shakspeare, Shakspeare clear.
Yet why this rage to damn? the thief on shore
Who eyes the labouring bark, when tempests roar,
And prays, that rocks the vessel's ribs may break,
Means his own gain in plundering the wreck.
But tho' a thousand foundering poets split,
None thrive, and some must lose by shipwreck'd wit.
Who steals your fame, as Shakspeare said of yore,
Enriches not himself but makes you poor.
The Tartar, when his comely foe lies slain,
Hopes with his spoils, his qualities to gain.
Cou'd critics every excellence destroy,
They nought inherit, but the barbarous joy.
Then of all censors, none are so severe
As those, whose scenes have been exploded here.
Self rais'd to the tribunal seat of letters,
As rogues made justices, they try their betters.
Unlike the Carthage queen, the ills they bore
But indurate their callous bosoms more.
Shou'd some pert teacher, his own worth to enhance
Decry all rival brothers of the dance,
Swear, one was aukward, t'other's manner coarse,
Another hobbled like a founder'd horse,
Say wou'd you not the envious railer blame,
When once you knew, Coupee himself was lame?
And free from malice, write at us in sport,
Like the poor pelted frogs we cry out thus,
“Alas 'tis play to you, but death to us.”
Yet shou'd some genuine critic point a fault,
Our author's not too forward to be taught,
To sage good counsel thankful he'll attend,
And think who spares him least, is most his friend.
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