PROLOGUE to the LAW of LOMBARDY,
Written by the AUTHOR.
Spoken by Mr. FARREN.
HARD is the taſk, in modern days to chooſe,
Congenial ſubjects for the tragic muſe:
The hiſtorian's page, the fertile epic ſtore,
Were known, and ranſack’d centuries before:
Like luſcious gardens, unenclos'd they lay,
To ev'ry ſaunt'ring bard an eaſy prey.
The enter’d, and, as taſte impell'd, they fed
On Homer ſome, and ſome on Hollingſhead.
From loftieſt numbers, or from humbleſt proſe,
At each conſpir’d, the artleſs ſtructures roſe.
Thus one great labour of their work was o'er,
They found a fable, and they ſought no more.
Careleſs were they of action, place, or time,
Whoſe only toil was dialogue and rhyme.
“Rules which the rigid Sragyrite devis'd,
“Our fathers knew not, or, if known, deſpis'd.
Whilſt ſide by ſide, were mingled in the ſcene,
A laughing ruſtic, and a weepinh queen.
Space was obedient to the boundleſs piece,
That op'd in Mexico, and clos'd in Greece.
Then thick with plots the crowded tale was ſown,
'Till the divided boſom felt for none;
“They fear’d no cenſures of a frowning pit,
“That judg'd as looſely as the authors writ.”
But we, who poſted in time's tardy rear,
Before a learn'd tribunal now appear;
With anxious art a lable muſt deſign,
Where probability, and intereſt join:
Where time, and place, and action, all agree
To violate no ſacred unity.
And thus each candid critic muſt confeſs
The labour greater, and indulgence leſs;
When ſuch the taſk, the wonder is to meet,
Not many pieces bad, but one complete.
Nor let preſumptious poets fondly claim
From rules exemption, by great Shakeſpeare's name;
Though comets move with wild excentric force,
Yet humbler planets keep their ſtated courſe.
But now, a bard, who touch'd your hearts before,
Again ſalutes you from a neighbouring ſhore.
Fir'd by the applauſe you gave his early lays,
He ſtands again a candidate for praiſe;
Nor from your former favour dares foreſee
To worthleſ ſtrains a partial deſtiny.
But if his virgin palm was fairly won,
And this next courſe with equal vigour’s run,
Now join to bind his freſher laurels on.
He fears no jaundic'd rival's envious breath,
The hands which twin'd, ſhall ſtill preſerve the wreath.
