Prologue

With countenance thrice chang'd from red to pale, Our author sends me forth to tell his tale; Croesus said he—who rul'd those lands that lie— Croesus—the Nabob of Antiquity: When satiated with war, with wealth, with praise, Defir'd new pleasures still to sooth his days; And publish'd vast rewards (sure out of spite) To him who should produce some new delight; This flame unquench'd burns on from age to age, Panting for novelty you seek our stage: To please this taste, a classic bard will try, To make soft bosoms heave a classic sigh; Feel Deianira's faded charms, and trace Alcides' godlike virtues in his race: Hard is the task who strives your praise to gain, And hard the part a poet must sustain. Herculean labours might our Prologue fill, And prove the club less powerful than the quill, To clear the course, to turn the tide of wit, To charm the watchful dragon of the pit; The Hydra's hiss to check, the giants quell, And bind the barking Cerberus of Hell, Might the best strength of Hercules require, Tho' to his force were added Orpheus' lyre: Yet will we not despond—Alcides' race In every one's remembrance holds a place; The tale has trembled on each infant tongue, The tale that Busby taught—that Dryden sung: This night attend, one generous tear bestow, To weep the hero's wrongs, the daughter's woe, Like kind protectors grant the widow's suit, And crown your poet with the golden fruit.