« AnteriorContinuar »
EP I Lo G U E.
BY SIR WILLIAM Y O N G E.
MARRY a Turk! a haughty, tyrant king!
'Tis true, the fellow's handsome, straight, and tall, But how the devil should he please us all! My Swain is little—true—but, be it known, My pride's to have that little all my own. Men will be ever to their errors blind, Where woman’s not allow'd to speak her mind. I swear this Eastern pageantry is nonsense, And for one man—one wife's enough of conscience.
In vain proud man usurps what's woman's due; For us alone, they honour's paths pursue: Inspir’d by us, they giory's heights ascend; Woman the source, the object, and the end. Though wealth, and pow'r, and glory, they receive, These are all trifles to what we can give. For us the statesman labours, hero fights, Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious nights; And, when blest peace has silenc'd war's alarms, Receives his full reward in Beauty's arms.
Vol. I, Y
M IS C E L L A N E O U S P O E. M. S.
sPoKEN BY MR. GARRICK, APRIL 5, 1750, BEFORE THE MASQUE OF COM US. Acted at DRURY-LANE THEATRE, for the Benefit of Milton's Grand-daughter *. YE patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name, Whose gen’rous zeal, unbought by flatt’ring rhymes, Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times, Immortal patrons of succeeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise; Let wit, condemnd the feeble war to wage With close malevolence, or publick rage, Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore, Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. This night, distinguish’d by your smiles, shall tell That never Briton can in vain excel; The slighted arts futurity shall trust, And rising ages hasten to be just. At length our mighty Bard's victorious lays Fill the loud voice of universal praise; And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, Yields to renown the centuries to come ;
* See Vol. IX. p. 150.
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
PREST by the load of life, the weary mind
Our anxious bard without complaint may share This bustling season's epidemick care; Like Caesar's pilot dignify'd by Eate, Tost in one common storm with all the great; Distrest alike the statesman and the wit, When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. The busy candidates for power and fame Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same ; Disabled both to combat or to fly, Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th’ offended burgess hoards his angry tale, For that blest year when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet’s foes dismiss, Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. “This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,” Says swelling Crispin, “begg’d a cobler's vote.” “ This night our wit,” the pert apprentice cries, “ Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies.” The great, 'tis true, can charm th’ electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judg d by those whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you.