Prologue to the Miniature Picture

Chill'd by rude gales while yet reluctant May With-holds the beauties of the vernal day; As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove, Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love; The season's pleasures too delay their hour, And Winter revels with protracted pow'r: Then blame not, Critics, if, thus late, we bring A Winter's Drama—but reproach—the Spring. What prudent Cit dares yet the season trust, Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust? Hous'd in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark Atchieves the Sunday triumph of the Park; Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late, Scour the New-Road, and dash thro' Grosvenorgate, Anxious—and fearful too—his steed to show, The hack'd Bucephalus of Rotten-row: Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly, Wooes the stray glance of ladies passing by, While his off-heel, insidiously aside, Provokes the caper which he seems to chide. Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains, The vulgar verdure of her walk remains, Where white-rob'd misses amble two by two, Nodding to booted beaux—"how' do, how' do?" With gen'rous questions that no answer wait, "How vastly full! A'n't you come vastly late? "Is'n't it quite charming? When do you leave town? "A'n't you quite tir'd? Pray can we set you down?" These suburb pleasures of a London May, Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay; But if this plea's denied, in our excuse Another still remains, you can't refuse; It is a Lady writes—and hark—a Noble Muse! But see a critic starting from his bench— "A noble author"? Yes, Sir, but the Play's not French; Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall; For we, you know, must follow Fashion's call: And true it is, things lately were en traine To woo the Gallic Muse at Drury-lane; Not to import a troop of Foreign elves, But treat you with French Actors—in ourselves: A Friend we had, who vow'd he'd make us speak Pure flippant French—by contract—in a week, Told us 'twas time to study what was good, Polish, and leave off being understood; That crouded audiences we thus might bring To Monsieur Parsons and Chevalier King: Or should the Vulgars grumble now and then, The Prompter might translate—for Country Gentlemen. Straight all subscrib'd—Kings, Gods, Mutes, Singer, Actor— A Flanders Figure-dancer our Contractor. But here I grieve to own, tho't be to you, He acted—e'en as most Contractors do, Sold what he never dealt in, and th' amount Being first discharg'd, submitted his account: And what th' event? their industry was such, Dodd spoke good Flemish, Bannister bad Dutch; Then the rogue told us, with insulting ease, So it was Foreign it was sure to please: Beaux, Witsapplaud, as Fashion should commend, And Misses laugh—to seem to understand— So from each clime our soil may something gain; Manhood from Rome, and sprightliness from Spain; Some Russian Roscius next delight the age, And a Dutch Heinel skate along the stage. Exotic fopperies, hail! whose flatt'ring smile Supplants the Sterner Virtues of our Isle! Thus while with Chinese firs, and Indian pines, Our nurs'ries swarm, the British Oak declines: Yet vain our Muse's fear—no Foreign laws We dread, while native beauty pleads our cause: While you too judge, whose smiles are honours higher, Than verse should gain, but where those eyes inspire. But if the men presume your pow'r to awe, Retort their churlish Senatorial law: This is your House—and move—the gentlemen withdraw: Then they may vote, with envy never ceasing, Your Influence has encreas'd and is encreasing. But there, I trust, the resolution's finish'd; Sure none will say—It ought to be diminish'd.