 | The Battle of the Poets : Or The Contention for the Laurel |  |
11
A NEW PROLOGUE, The first Night of the young Company's acting this Season, at the New Theatre in the Hay-Market; in Behalf of those that came there from the other three Play-houses.
Spoke by Mr. Roberts.
As
youthful Soldiers, bred to Wars Alarms,
Disdain soft Peace, and love to shine in Arms;
Fortune and Fame with glowing Transport view,
And where They fly, with lab'ring Steps pursue.
Disdain soft Peace, and love to shine in Arms;
Fortune and Fame with glowing Transport view,
And where They fly, with lab'ring Steps pursue.
So we, grown weary of inactive Life,
Have dar'd to enter this ambitious Strife!
Fond, flattering Hope, to our desiring Eyes,
Presents your Favours, tempts us now to rise,
And bravely strive for such a glorious Prize.
Long the bright Ornaments of Drury's Stage
Have been the darling Favourites of the Age;
But greedy Fate, and Time's destroying Hand,
The generous Purpose of their Souls withstand.
Since then, in their declining, Others rise,
Blameless we may with Those dispute the Prize.
If Their Endeavours patient you attend,
The like Indulgence may to Us extend.
We hope to please—Let Youth atone each Fault,
Nothing at once is to Perfection brought:
The Seeds of Judgment, like the Fruit of Trees,
Wake into Life, and ripen by Degrees.
Young Cyons, e're they flourish, must take Root;
The Spring must usher in the Summer Fruit.
Bid us but hope you will regard our Toil,
Have dar'd to enter this ambitious Strife!
Fond, flattering Hope, to our desiring Eyes,
Presents your Favours, tempts us now to rise,
And bravely strive for such a glorious Prize.
Long the bright Ornaments of Drury's Stage
Have been the darling Favourites of the Age;
But greedy Fate, and Time's destroying Hand,
The generous Purpose of their Souls withstand.
Since then, in their declining, Others rise,
Blameless we may with Those dispute the Prize.
If Their Endeavours patient you attend,
The like Indulgence may to Us extend.
We hope to please—Let Youth atone each Fault,
Nothing at once is to Perfection brought:
The Seeds of Judgment, like the Fruit of Trees,
Wake into Life, and ripen by Degrees.
Young Cyons, e're they flourish, must take Root;
The Spring must usher in the Summer Fruit.
And with your Influence bless our barren Soil;
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Or still to Innocent Delight may move,
And give New Pleasure for each different Night,
Us to the Task shall rouze, You to attend invite.
Our Souls assiduous shall no Labour spare,
That may instruct us to be worth your Care:
We'll strive, as all Predecessors strove,
Still at Perfection aiming, upwards move,
And be, in Time, we hope, what you may all approve.
| The Battle of the Poets : Or The Contention for the Laurel | |