By T. VAUGHAN, Esq.
By T. VAUGHAN, Esq.
"Long before the beginning of this Play,"I heard somedeepones in the Green-Room, say,They had their fears and doubts—whilst some didquake—And others wish'd it bed-time for her sake.Do you, our best Physicians, ever kind,}Prescribe our true Cephalic for the Mind,Of these our Neighbours, andkind Friends—behind,And with it, give a cordial of the best,To one, with deepest Gratitude imprest.For some there are—I have them in my eye—Will sicken and turn pale with jealousy,Whene'er we scribbling Women wield the Pen,Or dare invade the Rights of scribbling Men;And fir'd with zeal, in dread array appear—With Tenets from thelearnedHemisphere;Thence cry (kind Souls) "Invention is the only Art,And mere Translation but a second Part;Besides—we Men of Taste—can ne'er withstandE'en Nature'sGarrickthus at second Hand!Then why do Comic Writers live on Theft,When such Ragouts and Dainties still are left?Not richer were, inCongreve'sdays orBehn,For now, the Males are Females—Women, Men—Nay some somanly, and so orthodox,Will drive you four in Hand—or hold the Box;And if perchance the fatal Die is thrown,Will storm and swear, like any Lord in Town."But might I whisper in this Censor's ear,I'd prove his observations too severe—And urge—"Translation to hit off with skill,Is not the province of each common Quill;But by improving what was writ before,Tho' Genius may be less, our Judgment's more;And whilst we paint with energy from Life,The gallant Husband, ormore gallant Wife,With Tints from living Portraits from the Spot,It matters not by whom related—or begot;And thus, much surer shall we reach the Heart,Than all thelifelesspomp ofboastedArt."As such, deny her not—at least the meritOf givingGallic Froth—trueBritish Spirit.And as for you, ye Fair, how blooms the Cheek,How sweet the Temper which those eyes bespeak?No Midnight Oil has e'er destroy'd a Grace,Or Gaming's Horrors found with you a place;But Cupid lent you all those winning Arts,Which at a glance—can warm the coldest Hearts.Check then with me these Censors as unjust,Who form their judgments—as they live—on Trust.Nor ever credit what they dare to say,Unless with you they join, and like our Play.Use for a signal then—your Magic Fan,And all the House will follow to a Man;Or should there be a disaffected few—A Counter Revolution—rests with you.
But might I whisper in this Censor's ear,I'd prove his observations too severe—And urge—"Translation to hit off with skill,Is not the province of each common Quill;But by improving what was writ before,Tho' Genius may be less, our Judgment's more;And whilst we paint with energy from Life,The gallant Husband, ormore gallant Wife,With Tints from living Portraits from the Spot,It matters not by whom related—or begot;And thus, much surer shall we reach the Heart,Than all thelifelesspomp ofboastedArt."As such, deny her not—at least the meritOf givingGallic Froth—trueBritish Spirit.
And as for you, ye Fair, how blooms the Cheek,How sweet the Temper which those eyes bespeak?No Midnight Oil has e'er destroy'd a Grace,Or Gaming's Horrors found with you a place;But Cupid lent you all those winning Arts,Which at a glance—can warm the coldest Hearts.
Check then with me these Censors as unjust,Who form their judgments—as they live—on Trust.Nor ever credit what they dare to say,Unless with you they join, and like our Play.
Use for a signal then—your Magic Fan,And all the House will follow to a Man;Or should there be a disaffected few—A Counter Revolution—rests with you.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Contemporary spellings and hyphenation have been retained even where inconsistent. The following changes have been made and can be identified in the body of the text by a grey dotted underline: