Prologue

The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind,
For which the appropriate name is hard to find;
No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be,
With strictest truth, pronounced a Tragedy;
Since, though predominant the tragic tone,
It reigns not uniformly and alone;
Then, that its character be best proclaim'd,
A Tragic-drama let the piece be named.

But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude,
'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude,
Where incidents in strange confusion blend,
Without connexion, interest, or end:
Not so; far different was the bard's design;
For though, at times, he ventures to combine
With grave Melpomene's impassion'd strain
The gay Thalia's more enlivening vein;
(As all mankind with one consent agree
How strong the charms of sweet variety,)
Yet Reason's path he still with care observes,
And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves,
His plot conducting by the rules of art:
And, above all, he strives to touch the heart;
Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire,
Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.

Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent;
The poet means not here to represent
The tragic Muse in all her terrors drest,
With might tempestuous to convulse the breast;
Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien,
To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene;
But with an air more mild and versatile,                }
Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile, }
Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style,    }
Resembling in effect an April-night
When from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light;
And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease,
Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.

But, in few words our author ends his plea,
Already tending to prolixity,
To paint from Nature was his leading aim;
Let then, the play your candid hearing claim:
Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws;
If good, reward it with deserved applause;
If bad, condemn; yet be it still exempt
From your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.