 | Madrigal And Trulletta |  |
vii
PROLOGUE.
Ye awful censors of the tragic scene,
Who come, from principle of fun or spleen,
To rob the bard of fame and profit too,
(Rob him of that, which not enriches you,
And make him poor indeed) for this one night
Forgo the pleasantry of damning spite.
Our author shuns, in scenes of sound and show,
To move by buckram springs of royal woe;
Where struts, and starts, and twists, and lungs supply
The want of nature, sense, and energy.
He casts his drama in life's humbler sphere;
That the small vulgar, with the great, may share
The mournful pen'orths of his tragic ware.
Who come, from principle of fun or spleen,
To rob the bard of fame and profit too,
(Rob him of that, which not enriches you,
And make him poor indeed) for this one night
Forgo the pleasantry of damning spite.
Our author shuns, in scenes of sound and show,
To move by buckram springs of royal woe;
Where struts, and starts, and twists, and lungs supply
The want of nature, sense, and energy.
He casts his drama in life's humbler sphere;
That the small vulgar, with the great, may share
The mournful pen'orths of his tragic ware.
No hackney'd tale or plan, our bard would chuse
For the sad subject of his melting muse:
Hoping from novelty to draw renown
(For novelty's the darling of the town)
His many moving incidents are ta'en,
From whence? The book and volume of his brain.
For the sad subject of his melting muse:
Hoping from novelty to draw renown
(For novelty's the darling of the town)
His many moving incidents are ta'en,
From whence? The book and volume of his brain.
Our bard—(he hopes without offence) presumes
To deck his mimic play with borrow'd plumes.
Whene'er the nature of his subject brought
A known similitude of tragic thought,
He snatch'd the sentiment already penn'd,
Afraid to alter what he could not mend.
Then to his motley scenes give patient ear,
Each line with caution scan, with candour hear;
Your kind compassion with your judgment blend,
Least, in attacking him, you wound a friend.
To deck his mimic play with borrow'd plumes.
Whene'er the nature of his subject brought
A known similitude of tragic thought,
He snatch'd the sentiment already penn'd,
Afraid to alter what he could not mend.
Then to his motley scenes give patient ear,
Each line with caution scan, with candour hear;
Your kind compassion with your judgment blend,
Least, in attacking him, you wound a friend.
| Madrigal And Trulletta | |