English

How sweet and pleasant, to a man endued
With moral goodness, is deep solitude?
Pensive to rove, not meditating harm,
And live in affluence at his country farm.
For in large cities where the many bide,
Self-cankering envy dwells, and high-blown pride:
There lull'd in all the luxury of ease,
They live at large, licentious as they please;
Yet soon these pleasures pall, and quick decay,
Like the light blaze that crackling dies away.

Happy the bard, the drama must confess,
Who first converted prologues to address;
And found the way to charm the critic fury,
By gentle supplication to the jury:
Thus when some Richard burns with tragic rage,
Or mad Ophelia pants to tread the stage;
Thanks to the mode — and writers only know it,
Their dulness is preceded by the poet;
And crimson blushes, starts, and trembling fears,
Are partly hush'd ere " Sir or ma'am " appears;
But why o'er reason should our fears prevail,
Where Mercy reigns, and Justice holds the scale?

To know the origin from whence you came,
And the frail fashion of this human frame,
Pause o'er those monuments with pensive eye,
Where purpled tyrants, proud oppressors lie;
All who could boast wealth, wisdom, beauty, birth,
Here meet, and mingle with one common earth:
Yet these no bright accomplishments could save
From Fate's dread sentence to the gloomy grave:
There while you read the frailty of your frame,
Learn from what vile original you came.

This Night we represent a modern Play,
Short, plain, and simple, in the ancient Way:
Instead of Ornament, and borrow'd Grace,
The Unities of Action, Time, and Place.
We raise no Ghosts, call down no gay. Machines,
Nor tempt you with Variety of Scenes:
With no rich, pompous Pageantry surprise,
Nor, to secure your Hands, delude your Eyes:
On Thought we now rely, and hope Success
From easy Words, and natural Distress.
In early Ages with no Charms but these.
The Fathers of the Drama sought to please ;

When I say unto the Wicked, O wicked Man, thou shalt surely die, if thou dost not speak, to warn the Wicked from his Way, that wicked Man shall die in his Iniquity: but his Blood will I require at thine Hand.
Where is the Warning that our Watchmen give.
Who side the Wicked, and with Sinners live?
Wink at Prosaneness, nay the Crime applaud
Which they should labour, to make us avoid?
What need have we, to pay a lazy Tribe
Of Priests, whom Satan easily can bribe
To let unwary Souls, unheeded, stray
Into the Snares the Enemy doth lay?

Say, ye gracious Pow'rs, if purer
Sentiments inform a Breast;
Or if Nymph was e'er securer
Of a tender Heart possest.

Mine for Silvia , owns a Passion.
By no sordid Views deform'd;
Love inspir'd, by Inclination,
That by Sense and Virtue warm'd.

In my Silvia , Nature sheweth
All her wonted Skill to please;
Blest her Work, who thus endoweth

If e'er my humble muse melodious sings.
'Tis when you animate and tune her strings;
If e'er she mounts 'tis when you prune her wings.
You, like the sun, your glorious beams display,
Deal to the darkest orb a friendly ray,
And clothe it with the lustre of the day.
Mean was the piece, unelegantly wrought,
The colours' faint, irregular the draught;
But your commanding touch, your nicer art,
Rais'd ev'ry stroke, and brighten'd ev'ry part.
So when Luke drew the rudiments of man,
An angel finish'd what the saint began;

Sly Dick took his new Spouse to Bed ,
And counted on her Maidenhead ;
For she was scarce Fourteen:
But hear! the Zone , he judg'd so tight ,
Was found unty'd and loosen'd quite.
What may this Wonder mean?
Poor Sylvia , who had her Cue ,
From his Embrace Frighted, with-drew,
And beg'd, he wou'd not chide:
With Colin romping th' other Day,
The Bird got out , and fled away;
No Fault of mine, she cry'd.

Oh Fate! where was thy mighty arm,
When beauty call'd thy aid?
Oh! Neptune! was thy potent charm,
Mysterious by thee laid?

Perhaps your eyes with savage joy
Saw Ocean swell around,
Bade waiting syrens quick destroy,
And bring the Halsewell down.

Ah, yes! the fatal morn was dark,
The misty snow thick fell;
The gale encreas'd, her planks they start,

How! cost a Week , before you made it?
Yet Damn'd you say, the Night they play'd it?
Your Pardon, Master Bayes , I doubt it!
You cou'd not be so long about it.