PROLOGUE to HAMLET, Spoken by the late Mr. POWELL on his Benefit-Night, at the Theatre at Jacob's-Well, in…

When genius flourish'd, and when SHAKESPEARE wrote, When Plays nor wanted wit, nor Prologues thought: Phoebus, to crown a merit so confess'd, Decreed this boon to make his darling bless'd; Two beauteous daughters of immortal JOVE, (Enchanting virgins, form'd alone for love,) He brought, and both beside the Poet plac'd, Who, each admir'd, and each by turns embrac'd; He knew not which to leave, nor which to chuse, This was the Comic, that the Tragic Muse; Now, Comedy, blithe, buxom, debonair, Seem'd all his wish, ambition, pride and care; Then, sweet MELPOMENE his soul possess'd, She was the gentlest, softest, loveliest, best; To strains harmonious each attunes her lyre, With solemn sweetness, or with living fire. Perplex'd—the charm'd, divided Poet stood, Transported, lost—alternately subdued. Phoebus the wav'ring of his soul descried, And pass'd his leave to make each fair his bride: The God—strange sentence! 'tho' 'twas giv'n on high, For this one time allow'd Polygamy. Th' enraptur'd bard unites each jarring wife, And, wondrous tale! adores them both for life.

To-night, for your applause, my dearest fame, I bring an offspring of the Tragic Dame; No thundering hero angry JOVE defies, Nor impious lover storms against the skies; To draw the gen'rous, sympathetic tear, The filial virtues shall to-night appear; A flame so holy, and so chaste a zeal, As Heav'n might look on, or as Saints might feel: Beauties on beauties strike the dazzled eyes, New beauties still on former beauties rise: Oh nature! whence this pow'rful, magic sway, That from our bosoms steals our souls away?

If, to draw characters most justly bright, To contrast light with shade and shade with light: To trace up passions to their inmost source, And greatly paint them with uncommon force: If these, obedient still to nature's laws, Excite our wonder and exact applause, Be these, immortal SHAKESPEARE! ever thine, To feel, to praise, and to adore them, mine: Engrave thy genuine feelings on this breast, Be all my bosom with thy stamp impress'd!

Pardon this tribute —nature will have way, To SHAKESPEARE nature must her tribute pay. Nor think presumption claims too large a part, If I aspire to boast a grateful heart. Oh gratitude! thou deity confess'd, Thou angel passion in a human breast, Forgive, if dearer to my soul than fame I steal one ray of thy celestial flame: With honest transport bring the spark divine, And offer it, as incense, at this shrine.