40
EPISTLES.
There was an age (its memory will last)
Before Italian airs debauch'd our taste,
In which the sable Muse with hopes and fears 15
Fill'd ev'ry breast and ev'ry eye with tears:
But where's that art which all our passions rais'd,
And mov'd the springs of Nature as it pleas'd?
Our poets only practise on the pit
With florid lines, and trifling turns of wit. 20
Howe'er ’tis well the present times can boast
The race of Charles's reign not wholly lost.
Thy scenes, immortal in their worth, shall stand
Among the chosen classics of our land:
And whilst our sons are by tradition taught 25
How Barry spoke what thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish and repeat,
And own thy works inimitably great.
Shakespeare, the genius of our isle, whose mind
(The universal mirror of mankind) 30
Express'd all images, enrich'd the stage,
But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous age.
When his immortal bays began to grow,
Rude was the language, and the humour low:
He, like the god of Day, was always bright; 35
But, rolling in its course, his orb of light
Was fully'd and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,
With spots contracted from the nether sky.
But whither is th' advent'rous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her rashness, venerable Shade! 40
Before Italian airs debauch'd our taste,
In which the sable Muse with hopes and fears 15
Fill'd ev'ry breast and ev'ry eye with tears:
But where's that art which all our passions rais'd,
And mov'd the springs of Nature as it pleas'd?
Our poets only practise on the pit
With florid lines, and trifling turns of wit. 20
Howe'er ’tis well the present times can boast
The race of Charles's reign not wholly lost.
Thy scenes, immortal in their worth, shall stand
Among the chosen classics of our land:
And whilst our sons are by tradition taught 25
How Barry spoke what thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish and repeat,
And own thy works inimitably great.
Shakespeare, the genius of our isle, whose mind
(The universal mirror of mankind) 30
Express'd all images, enrich'd the stage,
But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous age.
When his immortal bays began to grow,
Rude was the language, and the humour low:
He, like the god of Day, was always bright; 35
But, rolling in its course, his orb of light
Was fully'd and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,
With spots contracted from the nether sky.
But whither is th' advent'rous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her rashness, venerable Shade! 40
