'Tis an old maxim with dramatick sages

'Tis an old maxim with dramatick sages, To draw their tragick lore from distant ages. The ruder manners, and impetuous vein, Which no trim rules of etiquette restrain; The gen'rous plainness of th' unpractis'd heart, Nature's free powers yet unsubdued by art; The rough simplicity,—the darksome time,— Improve the pathos,—heighten the sublime: While all the Poet's deepest skill might fail, If us'd to decorate some modern tale.

In me you've seen a wife—who, though abhorr'd, Abandon'd, threaten'd by her tyrant Lord, Did patient long her firm affection prove, 'Midst the keen tortures of insulted love. You've seen a maiden—fair, and nobly born, Attach'd to merit, wretched and forlorn; And then, her lover, in a mean disguise, In native worth above all titles rise. A priest—with zeal and holy ardour fraught, Practise the lessons which his preaching taught. —But while at scenes like these your bosoms glow, You'll recollect, they happen'd—long ago. In our gay times, a wife forsaken, scorn'd, Had ne'er in doleful guise her fortune mourn'd; But with frail schemes; in fashionable course, Had been the first to furnish a divorce. The maiden had her peasant swain despis'd, And stars, and lace, and liv'ries, more had priz'd. Nor could, in this, perhaps, her choice be blam'd; For say, what lover now had other merit claim'd? As for our priests—in rev'rence let them rest;— On modern saints—the least that's said, is best.

Of manners, then, so different in their kind, The old are rude—the new are too refin'd. That author well deserves our warmest praise, Who those examples which we need displays. Who, 'midst the placid murmurings of Ton, Rolls the rough tide of Gothick force along; And when true worth seems withering at the root, Turns the rich soil whence towering virtues shoot.

Ne'er can the Muse be more our nature's friend, Than when she strives its wide extremes to blend; Bids simple truth with polish'd fashion join, And ancient strength with modern grace combine.