The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

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        In the first rise and infancy of Farce,

        When fools were many, and when plays were scarce,

        The raw, unpractised authors could, with ease,

        A young and unexperienced audience please:

        No single character had e'er been shown,

        But the whole herd of fops was all their own;

        Rich in originals, they set to view,

        In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.

           But now our British theatre can boast

        Drolls of all kinds, a vast, unthinking host!

        Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows

        Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux;

        Rough country knights are found of every shire;

        Of every fashion gentle fops appear;

        And punks of different characters we meet,

        As frequent on the stage as in the pit.

        Our modern wits are forced to pick and cull,

        And here and there by chance glean up a fool:

        Long ere they find the necessary spark,

        They search the town, and beat about the Park;

        To all his most frequented haunts resort,

        Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court,

        As love of pleasure or of place invites;

        And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.

           Howe'er, to do you right, the present age

        Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage;

        That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod,

        And wont be blockheads in the common road.

        Do but survey this crowded house to-night:—

        Here's still encouragement for those that write.

           Our author, to divert his friends to-day,

        Stocks with variety of fools his play;

        And that there may be something gay and new,

        Two ladies-errant has exposed to view:

        The first a damsel, travelled in romance;

        The t'other more refined; she comes from France:

        Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger;

        And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.

        When Orpheus tuned his lyre with pleasing woe,

        Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow,

        While listening forests covered as he played,

        The soft musician in a moving shade.

        That this night's strains the same success may find,

        The force of magic is to music joined;

        Where sounding strings and artful voices fail,

        The charming rod and muttered spells prevail.

        Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand

        On barren mountains, or a waste of sand,

        The desert smiles; the woods begin to grow,

        The birds to warble, and the springs to flow.

           The same dull sights in the same landscape mixed,

        Scenes of still life, and points for ever fixed,

        A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow,

        And pall the sense with one continued show;

        But as our two magicians try their skill,

        The vision varies, though the place stands still,

        While the same spot its gaudy form renews,

        Shifting the prospect to a thousand views.

        Thus (without unity of place transgressed)

        The enchanter turns the critic to a jest.

           But howsoe'er, to please your wandering eyes,

        Bright objects disappear and brighter rise:

        There's none can make amends for lost delight,

        While from that circle we divert your sight.

        Long has a race of heroes fill'd the stage,

        That rant by note, and through the gamut rage;

        In songs and airs express their martial fire,

        Combat in trills, and in a fugue expire:

        While, lull'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit,

        Calm and serene you indolently sit,

        And, from the dull fatigue of thinking free,

        Hear the facetious fiddle's repartee:

        Our home-spun authors must forsake the field,

        And Shakspeare to the soft Scarletti yield.

           To your new taste the poet of this day

        Was by a friend advised to form his play.

        Had Valentini, musically coy,

        Shunn'd Phædra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd joy,

        It had not moved your wonder to have seen

        An eunuch fly from an enamour'd queen:

        How would it please, should she in English speak,

        And could Hippolitus reply in Greek!

        But he, a stranger to your modish way,

        By your old rules must stand or fall to-day,

        And hopes you will your foreign taste command,

        To bear, for once, with what you understand.

        The man resolved, and steady to his trust,

        Inflexible СКАЧАТЬ