PROLOGUE.
WRITTEN BY SIR JAMES BLAND BURGESS, BART.
SPOKEN BY MR. WHITFIELD.
No common cause your verdict now demands,Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands;That mighty master of the human soul,Who rules the passions, and with strong controlThro’ every turning of the changeful heartDirects his course sublime, and leads his powerful art.When on his birth propitious nature smil’d,And hung transported o’er her favourite child;While on his head her choicest gifts she shower’d,And o’er his mind her inspiration pour’d:—“Proceed,” she cried, “the high decree fulfil!“’Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will;“On fancy’s wing to stretch o’er boundless space,“And all creation’s varied works to trace;“’Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue,“Each hidden power of verse to bring to view,“To shed o’er British taste celestial day,“And reign o’er Genius with unrivall’d sway.”Such was the high behest—the sacred choiceLong has been sanction’d by our candid voice:The favour’d relics of your Shakspeare’s hand,Unrivall’d, and inimitable, stand.If hope of fame some modern bards has ledTo try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread;If, with presumptuous wing, they dar’d aspireTo catch some portion of his sacred fire,—Your critic pow’rs the vain attempt repell’d,The flimsy vapour, by your breath dispell’d,Expos’d the trembling culprit to your sight,While Shakspeare’s radiance shone with doubled light.From deep oblivion snatch’d, this play appears:It claims respect, since Shakspeare’s name it bears;That name, the source of wonder and delight,To a fair hearing has at least a right.We ask no more—with you the judgment lies;No forgeries escape your piercing eyes!Unbiass’d, then, pronounce your dread decree,Alike from prejudice and favour free.If, the fierce ordeal pass’d, you chance to findRich sterling ore, tho’ rude and unrefin’d,Stamp it your own; assert your poet’s fame,And add, fresh wreaths to Shakspeare’s honour’d name.
No common cause your verdict now demands,Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands;That mighty master of the human soul,Who rules the passions, and with strong controlThro’ every turning of the changeful heartDirects his course sublime, and leads his powerful art.When on his birth propitious nature smil’d,And hung transported o’er her favourite child;While on his head her choicest gifts she shower’d,And o’er his mind her inspiration pour’d:—“Proceed,” she cried, “the high decree fulfil!“’Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will;“On fancy’s wing to stretch o’er boundless space,“And all creation’s varied works to trace;“’Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue,“Each hidden power of verse to bring to view,“To shed o’er British taste celestial day,“And reign o’er Genius with unrivall’d sway.”Such was the high behest—the sacred choiceLong has been sanction’d by our candid voice:The favour’d relics of your Shakspeare’s hand,Unrivall’d, and inimitable, stand.If hope of fame some modern bards has ledTo try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread;If, with presumptuous wing, they dar’d aspireTo catch some portion of his sacred fire,—Your critic pow’rs the vain attempt repell’d,The flimsy vapour, by your breath dispell’d,Expos’d the trembling culprit to your sight,While Shakspeare’s radiance shone with doubled light.From deep oblivion snatch’d, this play appears:It claims respect, since Shakspeare’s name it bears;That name, the source of wonder and delight,To a fair hearing has at least a right.We ask no more—with you the judgment lies;No forgeries escape your piercing eyes!Unbiass’d, then, pronounce your dread decree,Alike from prejudice and favour free.If, the fierce ordeal pass’d, you chance to findRich sterling ore, tho’ rude and unrefin’d,Stamp it your own; assert your poet’s fame,And add, fresh wreaths to Shakspeare’s honour’d name.
No common cause your verdict now demands,Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands;That mighty master of the human soul,Who rules the passions, and with strong controlThro’ every turning of the changeful heartDirects his course sublime, and leads his powerful art.When on his birth propitious nature smil’d,And hung transported o’er her favourite child;While on his head her choicest gifts she shower’d,And o’er his mind her inspiration pour’d:—“Proceed,” she cried, “the high decree fulfil!“’Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will;“On fancy’s wing to stretch o’er boundless space,“And all creation’s varied works to trace;“’Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue,“Each hidden power of verse to bring to view,“To shed o’er British taste celestial day,“And reign o’er Genius with unrivall’d sway.”Such was the high behest—the sacred choiceLong has been sanction’d by our candid voice:The favour’d relics of your Shakspeare’s hand,Unrivall’d, and inimitable, stand.If hope of fame some modern bards has ledTo try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread;If, with presumptuous wing, they dar’d aspireTo catch some portion of his sacred fire,—Your critic pow’rs the vain attempt repell’d,The flimsy vapour, by your breath dispell’d,Expos’d the trembling culprit to your sight,While Shakspeare’s radiance shone with doubled light.From deep oblivion snatch’d, this play appears:It claims respect, since Shakspeare’s name it bears;That name, the source of wonder and delight,To a fair hearing has at least a right.We ask no more—with you the judgment lies;No forgeries escape your piercing eyes!Unbiass’d, then, pronounce your dread decree,Alike from prejudice and favour free.If, the fierce ordeal pass’d, you chance to findRich sterling ore, tho’ rude and unrefin’d,Stamp it your own; assert your poet’s fame,And add, fresh wreaths to Shakspeare’s honour’d name.
No common cause your verdict now demands,
Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands;
That mighty master of the human soul,
Who rules the passions, and with strong control
Thro’ every turning of the changeful heart
Directs his course sublime, and leads his powerful art.
When on his birth propitious nature smil’d,
And hung transported o’er her favourite child;
While on his head her choicest gifts she shower’d,
And o’er his mind her inspiration pour’d:—
“Proceed,” she cried, “the high decree fulfil!
“’Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will;
“On fancy’s wing to stretch o’er boundless space,
“And all creation’s varied works to trace;
“’Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue,
“Each hidden power of verse to bring to view,
“To shed o’er British taste celestial day,
“And reign o’er Genius with unrivall’d sway.”
Such was the high behest—the sacred choice
Long has been sanction’d by our candid voice:
The favour’d relics of your Shakspeare’s hand,
Unrivall’d, and inimitable, stand.
If hope of fame some modern bards has led
To try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread;
If, with presumptuous wing, they dar’d aspire
To catch some portion of his sacred fire,—
Your critic pow’rs the vain attempt repell’d,
The flimsy vapour, by your breath dispell’d,
Expos’d the trembling culprit to your sight,
While Shakspeare’s radiance shone with doubled light.
From deep oblivion snatch’d, this play appears:
It claims respect, since Shakspeare’s name it bears;
That name, the source of wonder and delight,
To a fair hearing has at least a right.
We ask no more—with you the judgment lies;
No forgeries escape your piercing eyes!
Unbiass’d, then, pronounce your dread decree,
Alike from prejudice and favour free.
If, the fierce ordeal pass’d, you chance to find
Rich sterling ore, tho’ rude and unrefin’d,
Stamp it your own; assert your poet’s fame,
And add, fresh wreaths to Shakspeare’s honour’d name.