html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }The fierce Melantius was content, you see,
The King should live; be not more fierce than he.
Too long indulgent to so rude a Time;
When Love was held so capital a Crime,
That a Crown'd Head could no compassion find;
But dy'd, because the Killer had been kind.
Nor is't less strange such mighty Wits as those
Should use a Style in Tragedy, like Prose.
Well sounding Verse, where Princes tread the Stage,
Should speak their Vertue, or describe their rage.
By the loud Trumpet, which our Courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, perswades.
And Verses are the potent charms we use,
Heroic Thoughts and Vertue to infuse.
When next we act this Tragedy again,
Unless you like the Change, we shall be slain.
The innocent Aspasia's Life or Death,
Amintor's too, depends upon your breath.
Excess of Love was heretofore the cause;
Now if we dye, 'tis want of your applause.