 | King Henry the VII. Or The Popish Impostor |  |
PROLOGUE, Spoken by Mr. MACKLIN.
Breathes
there a Briton longs for Popish Chains,
While Smithfield Fire our English Annals Stains;
When Popish Rage and Persecution blaz'd
With British Blood on Altars Rome had raised;
When Matrons saw their Sons in Flames expire,
Their Husbands crackling in religious Fire.
Then Rome gave Laws, our Kings and Council sway'd,
While Albion mourn'd her Liberties betray'd.
But now she smiles; our Laws are all our own,
Which rule alike the Cottage and the Throne.
No Tools of Power our Properties invade,
No Heads are chopt for Plots the Court hath made.
By such base Arts her Empire Rome maintains,
Axes her Arguments, her Logic Chains;
To these a Martyr gallant Russel fell,
And Sidney bled, whose Crime was writing well.
But under George such Practice is unknown,
For free-born Subjects guard and grace his Throne.
While Smithfield Fire our English Annals Stains;
When Popish Rage and Persecution blaz'd
With British Blood on Altars Rome had raised;
When Matrons saw their Sons in Flames expire,
Their Husbands crackling in religious Fire.
Then Rome gave Laws, our Kings and Council sway'd,
While Albion mourn'd her Liberties betray'd.
But now she smiles; our Laws are all our own,
Which rule alike the Cottage and the Throne.
No Tools of Power our Properties invade,
No Heads are chopt for Plots the Court hath made.
By such base Arts her Empire Rome maintains,
Axes her Arguments, her Logic Chains;
To these a Martyr gallant Russel fell,
And Sidney bled, whose Crime was writing well.
But under George such Practice is unknown,
For free-born Subjects guard and grace his Throne.
A Prince like him our Author shews to Night,
Who fought for Freedom and his regal Right.
The temporary Piece in Haste was writ,
The six Weeks Labour of a puny Wit;
With melting Measure, Critic Rules unfraught,
Artless he writes,—just as rude Nature taught:
No golden Lines, no polish'd Verse hath he,
But all like British Courage, rough and free.
For once then—
Judge not by Critic, but by patriot Laws;
Where Genius fails, support your fav'rite Cause.
Who fought for Freedom and his regal Right.
The temporary Piece in Haste was writ,
The six Weeks Labour of a puny Wit;
With melting Measure, Critic Rules unfraught,
Artless he writes,—just as rude Nature taught:
No golden Lines, no polish'd Verse hath he,
But all like British Courage, rough and free.
For once then—
Judge not by Critic, but by patriot Laws;
Where Genius fails, support your fav'rite Cause.
| King Henry the VII. Or The Popish Impostor | |