Prologue

While other culprits brave it to the last; Nor beg for mercy till the judgment's past: Poets alone, as conscious of their crimes, Open their trials with imploring rhymes. Thus cramm'd with flattery and low submission, Each trite dull prologue is the bard's petition. A stale device to calm the critic's fury, And bribe at once the judges and the jury.

But what avail such poor repeated arts? The whimp'ring scribbler ne'er can touch your hearts: Nor ought an ill-tim'd pity to take place— Fast as they rise, destroy th' increasing race: The vermin else will run the nation o'er— By saving one, you breed a million more.

Tho' disappointed authors rail and rage, At fancy'd parties, and a senseless age, Yet still has justice triumph'd on the stage. Thus speaks and thinks the author of to-day, And saying this, has little more to say. He asks no friend his partial zeal to show, Nor fears the groundless censures of a foe; He knows no friendship can protect the fool, Nor will an audience be a party's tool. 'Tis inconsistent with a free-born spirit, To side with folly, or to injure merit. By your decision he must fall or stand, Nor, tho' he feels the lash, will blame the hand.