University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE BY THE AUTHOR. Spoken by Mr. Powell.

A tragedy again?—Aye, he may try,
With dagger, strut, and rant, to make us cry;
But all his efforts, and his kill, kill, kill!
Shall never make us weep against our will:
We love to laugh!—then, pray, why here to night?
Can it be out of whim, or out of spight?
I'll not believe it; Britons are too kind,
Too generous, to betray a grov'ling mind!
Some critic sly, or poet in a corner,
May, here and there, perhaps, perform the scorner
And come resolv'd to damn: since wits, they say,
Like hungry wolves, for want of other prey,
On their own kind will turn; and thro' the town,
To gaol from garret, hunt each other down.
But yet—tho' authors are so hard of heart—
Ye, gentle fair, will act a gentler part;
And have your salts and handkerchiefs prepar'd
For tears, which are the poet's best reward.
And sympathetic beaux can't fail to cry
At your command, and utter sigh for sigh.
From you, O gallery gods! there's nought to fear,
If genuine pathos calls the genuine tear:
Nor will the judgment of the pit refuse
Enlighten'd plaudits to the tragic muse,
If Nature, leagu'd with Pity, plays her part,
To agitate the pulses of the heart.
Howe'er the author in his part may fail,
Truth has supply'd the subject of his tale.
Gallia—where all to mad excess is borne;
Where ev'ry tie of God and man is torn;
Where suff'ring virtue lifts her hands in vain,
And cheated freedom drags his iron chain—
Gallia supply'd the story, which, to-night,
With tender sympathy and sad delight,
If hope deceive not, thro' our cares, shall claim,
And your applause, one laurel leaf from fame;
One leaf, if haply one ungather'd grows,
To wreath our naval heroes' gallant brows.