An Occasional Prologue

Since the refinement of this polish'd ageHas 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 débutOf embryo Actors, to the Drama new:Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;Clip not owr 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.