But virtuous habits must have time to grow, Weak at their rise, and in their progress slow. For us our author covets your applause, But will not violate truth's sacred laws; Disclains the novelties of these strange times Which blot our duties out, and varnish crimes. His muse is chaste; nor would accept a crown Which virtue could not see without a frown. Why deigns the nine Apollo to inspire? Why helps to raise the song, or strike the lyre? Not, with their sounds to lead weak man astray, But cheer at once, and guide him on his way. Our tale is artless-teems with no event, But what the course of things may well present; The stage no spectress to soft music tread, And like Lord Burleigh shake the silent head; First make us wonder, why they should appear, Then, why they nothing do, when they are here. -Nor distant periods doth our plot embrace, But keeps the unities of time and place. g See Castle Spectre. h See Critic. Our scene America-where still the land Remains unclear'd-upon a barren strand. Our moral one, by which we fain would mend; Foil'd in that hope, we've nothing to offend. Farewell-if candour can approve our play, Applaud us here, and go well pleas'd away; If not our author's motives rightly scan, Condemn the poet, but acquit the man. |