An Occasional Prologue, Delivered By The Author Previous To The Performance Of "The Wheel Of Fortune" At A Private Theatre. [1]

Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence - though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone, we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no vet'ran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;
Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise;
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find?
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

George Gordon Byron

George Gordon Byron, commonly known as Lord Byron, was a British poet and leading figure in the Romantic movement. He is regarded as one of the greatest British poets and remains widely read and influential. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and the short lyric She Walks in Beauty. Byron's personal life was marked by scandal and he was famously described by Lady Caroline Lamb as "mad, bad, and dangerous to know."

George Gordon Byron

Translation From Catullus. Luctus De Norte Passeris.

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

The Adieu. Written Under The Impression That The Author Would Soon Die.

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

Stanzas To A Lady, On Leaving England.

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

To Harriet. [1]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue To "The Mistakes." By Joseph Harris, Comedian, 1690. (Written By Some Other.)

[Enter Mr Bright.]

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no Prologue to be had
to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece;
as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left
our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and
cursing somebody that has deceived him.

[Enter Mr Bowen.]

Hold your prating to the audience: here is honest Mr Williams,
just come in, half mellow, from the Rose Tavern. He swears he is
inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too,
either with a prologue of his own or something like one. Oh,
here he comes to his trial, at all adventures: for my part I
wish him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr Bright and Mr Bowen.]

[Enter Mr William...

John Dryden

Address. For the benefit of William Dunlap.
(Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe)

What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight!
What scene of splendor--conjured here to-night!
What voices murmur, and what glances gleam!
Sure 'tis some flattering unsubstantial dream.
The house is crowded--everybody's here
For beauty famous, or to science dear;
Doctors and lawyers, judges, belles, and beaux,
Poets and painters--and Heaven only knows
Whom else beside!--And see, gay ladies sit
Lighting with smiles that fearful place, the pit--
(A fairy change--ah, pray continue it.)
Gray heads are here too, listening to my rhymes,
Full of the spirit of departed times;
Grave men and studious, strangers to my sight,
All gather round me on this brilliant night.
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Soliloquy Of A Bard In The Country. [1]
'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still,
Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes frown;
He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?
What worth is some few partial readers' praise.
If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise?
Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite;
Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write;
Where none but girls and striplings dare admire,
And Critics rise in every country Squire -
But yet this last my candid Muse admits,
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Prologue To The Rival Ladies.
'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
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Yet the world's mended well; in former days
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For the reforming poets of our age,
In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
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The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it now;
They blow out candles to give light to the plot.
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Prologue To Steele's Tender Husband
In the first rise and infancy of farce,
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The raw unpractis'd authors could, with ease,
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Prologue To "The Prophetess."[1] By Beaumont And Fletcher.
SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON. 1690.

What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play which, like a pérspective set right,
Presents our vast expenses close to sight;
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Our distant gains; and those uncertain too:
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Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
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