Spoken by Mr.Wilks.
Thisplay took birth from principles of truth,To make amends for errors past, of youth.A bard, that's now no more, in riper days,Conscious review'd the licence of his plays:And tho' applause his wanton muse had fir'd,Himself condemn'd what sensual minds admir'd.At length, he own'd, that plays should let you seeNot only, What you are, but ought to be;Though vice was natural, 'twas never meantThe stage should shew it, but for punishment!Warm with that thought, his Muse once more took flame,Resolv'd to bring licentious life to shame.Such was the piece his latest pen design'd,But left no traces of his plan behind.Luxuriant scenes unprun'd or half contriv'd;Yet thro' the mass his native fire surviv'd:Rough, as rich ore, in mines the treasure lay,Yet still 'twas rich, and forms at length a play.In which the bold compiler boasts no merit,But that his pains have sav'd your scenes of spirit.Not scenes that would a noisy joy impart,But such as hush the mind and warm the heart.From praise of hands no sure account he draws,But fixt attention is sincere applause:If then (for hard you'll own the task) his artCan to those embryon-scenes new life impart,The living proudly would exclude his lays,And to the buried bard resign the praise.
Thisplay took birth from principles of truth,To make amends for errors past, of youth.A bard, that's now no more, in riper days,Conscious review'd the licence of his plays:And tho' applause his wanton muse had fir'd,Himself condemn'd what sensual minds admir'd.At length, he own'd, that plays should let you seeNot only, What you are, but ought to be;Though vice was natural, 'twas never meantThe stage should shew it, but for punishment!Warm with that thought, his Muse once more took flame,Resolv'd to bring licentious life to shame.Such was the piece his latest pen design'd,But left no traces of his plan behind.Luxuriant scenes unprun'd or half contriv'd;Yet thro' the mass his native fire surviv'd:Rough, as rich ore, in mines the treasure lay,Yet still 'twas rich, and forms at length a play.In which the bold compiler boasts no merit,But that his pains have sav'd your scenes of spirit.Not scenes that would a noisy joy impart,But such as hush the mind and warm the heart.From praise of hands no sure account he draws,But fixt attention is sincere applause:If then (for hard you'll own the task) his artCan to those embryon-scenes new life impart,The living proudly would exclude his lays,And to the buried bard resign the praise.