Prologue To Thomson'S 'Sophonisba.'[59]

When Learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose; The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes. With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow, And the first tears for her were taught to flow: Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspired; Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown, Britain, by juster title, makes her own. When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write. For this a British author bids again The heroine rise, to grace the British scene: Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame, She asks, What bosom has not felt the same? Asks of the British youth--is silence there? She dares to ask it of the British fair. To-night our homespun author would be true, At once to nature, history, and you. Well pleased to give our neighbours due applause, He owns their learning, but disdains their laws; Not to his patient touch, or happy flame, 'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame. If France excel him in one freeborn thought, The man, as well as poet, is in fault. Nature! informer of the poet's art, Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart, Thou art his guide; each passion, every line, Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. Be thou his judge: in every candid breast Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.

Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard; Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives and writes again. The adventurous lover is successful still, Who strives to please the fair against her will: Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own despite has strove to please ye. He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. You modern wits, should each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little would be left you, I'm afraid, If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid. From this deep fund our author largely draws, Nor sinks his credit lower than it was. Though plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reasons--to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long, And seen the death of much immortal song. He says, poor poets lost, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone. Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comic Tom abounds in other treasure. Fame is at best an unperforming cheat; But 'tis substantial happiness to eat. Let ease, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.