Prologue

Though wild our theme, the grave historian's page Hath sanctify'd the tale through ev'ry age. Who hath not heard of Argo sent from Greece, Of Jason's labours for the golden fleece, And fond Medea's ill-requited aid To that false hero, who his vows betray'd? In ev'ry clime, where learned Muses reign, The stage hath known Medea's mournful strain, Hath giv'n the flying car, and magic rod To her, th' avow'd descendant of a god. The storms of trouble, which afflict the great, Teach private life to prise its tranquil state. That truth the moral of our fable shows Too well in scenes of unexampled woes, Which here will ravage an exalted breast Of merit conscious, and with shame opprest; Where love and fury, grief and madness join'd O'erturn the structure of a godlike mind. Pow'r, wisdom, science, and her birth divine In vain to shield her from distress combine; Nor wisdom, pow'r, nor science yield relief; Her potent wand can vanquish all, but grief: In vain her winged chariot sweeps the air To shun that mightier sorceress, despair. The characters and passions hence exprest Are all submitted to the feeling breast; Let ancient story justify the rest.