 | Injured Virtue : or The Virgin Martyr |  |
PROLOGUE, Written and Spoke by Mr. Harper.
The
Stage has been, and still improv'd shall rise,
Instructive to your Ears, and pleasing to your Eyes;
Tho' Meddling-men industrious to their Shame,
Against its Precepts and its Use declaim.
'Twas so in Cromwell's Regecidal Days;
Th'Usurper cou'd not bear the Sting of Plays;
Knowing too well, our Scenes their Vice expose,
And Comedy put down, Rebellion rose.
So wou'd it be again, if our Back-friends
Were suffer'd once to gain their hateful Ends.
Religion with the Drama wou'd decline,
Soldiers Usurp the Place of the Divine,
And Players—once a Week perhaps might Dine.
Instructive to your Ears, and pleasing to your Eyes;
Tho' Meddling-men industrious to their Shame,
Against its Precepts and its Use declaim.
'Twas so in Cromwell's Regecidal Days;
Th'Usurper cou'd not bear the Sting of Plays;
Knowing too well, our Scenes their Vice expose,
And Comedy put down, Rebellion rose.
So wou'd it be again, if our Back-friends
Were suffer'd once to gain their hateful Ends.
Religion with the Drama wou'd decline,
Soldiers Usurp the Place of the Divine,
And Players—once a Week perhaps might Dine.
But Thanks to Fortune, and our Friends that sit
Within this Circle of the Stage, and Pit;
We yet survive for all their Spleen and Spight,
To show you here, a Moral Play to Night.
To you, our modest Author makes Appeal,
And humbly begs you wou'd his Faults conceal:
'Tis the first time he ever trail'd a Pen,
And if discourag'd, dares not do't again;
Wou'd you once smile on his Attempts like these,
He wou'd by nobler Methods strive to please,
With sinew'd Sense his future Lines shou'd shine,
And this low Strain give place to the Divine.
Within this Circle of the Stage, and Pit;
We yet survive for all their Spleen and Spight,
To show you here, a Moral Play to Night.
To you, our modest Author makes Appeal,
And humbly begs you wou'd his Faults conceal:
'Tis the first time he ever trail'd a Pen,
And if discourag'd, dares not do't again;
Wou'd you once smile on his Attempts like these,
He wou'd by nobler Methods strive to please,
With sinew'd Sense his future Lines shou'd shine,
And this low Strain give place to the Divine.
Oh! keep both him and us from Malice free,
Encourage us, at least for Charity;
You know with what Injustice they declaim,
Who make our Plays all useless and prophane,
And all our Scenes immoral, lewd, and vain.
Encourage us, at least for Charity;
Who make our Plays all useless and prophane,
And all our Scenes immoral, lewd, and vain.
‘When Greece was Mistress of the World, and Wit,
‘And Sophocles the Great, and Solon, writ.
‘That Solon whom the Gods had judg'd most wise,
‘Who still drew Tears from glad Spectator's Eyes.
‘So much the Ancients did to Plays allow,
‘The Stage was then, as is the Pulpit now.
‘They held it Moral all, in antient Days;
‘For it was first the sole Intent of Plays,
‘To punish Vice, and give to Virtue Praise.
‘And Sophocles the Great, and Solon, writ.
‘That Solon whom the Gods had judg'd most wise,
‘Who still drew Tears from glad Spectator's Eyes.
‘So much the Ancients did to Plays allow,
‘The Stage was then, as is the Pulpit now.
‘They held it Moral all, in antient Days;
‘For it was first the sole Intent of Plays,
‘To punish Vice, and give to Virtue Praise.
| Injured Virtue : or The Virgin Martyr | |