html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Scarce should we have the boldness to pretend
So long renown'd a Tragedy to mend:
Had not already some deserv'd your praise
With like attempt. Of all our elder Plays,
This and Philaster have the lowdest fame:
Great are their Faults, and glorious is their Flame.
In both our English Genius is exprest;
Lofty and bold, but negligently, drest.
Above our Neighbours our Conceptions are:
But faultless Writing is th' effect of Care.
Our Lines reform'd, and not compos'd in haste;
Polisht like Marble, would like Marble last.
But as the present, so the last Age writ;
In both we find like negligence and wit.
Were we but less indulgent to our faults,
And patience had to cultivate our thoughts:
Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage
Would honour this, than did the Græcian Stage.
Thus says our Author, not content to see
That Others write as carlesly as He.
Tho he pretends not to make things compleat;
Yet to please You, he'd have the Poets sweat.
In this old Play, what's new we have exprest
In rhiming Verse, distinguish'd from the rest:
That, as the Roan his[errata 1]its hasty way does make,
Not mingling Waters, thro Geneva's Lake:
So having here the differeut stiles in view,
You may compare the former with the new.
If we less rudely shall the Knot unty,
Soften the rigour of the Tragedy:
And yet preserve each persons character:
Then to the Other, This you may prefer.
'Tis left to you: the Boxes and the Pit,
Are soveraign Judges of this sort of Wit.
In other things the knowing Artist may
Judge better than the people: but a Play,
Made for delight, and for no other use,
If you approve it not, has no excuse.