AN
OCCASIONAL
PROLOGUE
and
EPILOGUE
TO
OTHELLO
,
As
it
was
acted
at
the
Theatre-Royal
in
Drury-Lane
,
on
Thursday
the
7th
of
March
1751
,
by
Persons
of
Di
stinction
for
their
Diversion
.
WHILE
mercenary
actors
tread
the
stage
,
And
hireling
scriblers
lash
or
lull
the
age
,
Ours
be
the
task
t'instruct
,
and
entertain
,
Without
one
thought
of
glory
or
of
gain
.
Virtue's
her
own
—
from
no
external
cause
—
She
gives
,
and
she
demands
the
Self-applause
:
Home
to
her
breast
she
brings
the
heart-felt
bays
,
Heedless
alike
of
profit
,
and
of
praise
.
This
now
perhaps
is
wrong
—
yet
this
we
know
,
'Twas
sense
and
truth
a
century
ago
:
When
Britain
with
transcendent
glory
crown'd
,
For
high
atchievements
,
as
for
wit
renown'd
;
Cull'd
from
each
growing
grace
the
purest
part
,
And
cropt
the
flowers
from
every
blooming
art
.
Our
noblest
youth
would
then
embrace
the
task
Of
comic
humour
,
or
the
mystic
masque
.
'Twas
theirs
t'incourage
worth
,
and
give
to
bards
What
now
is
spent
in
boxing
and
in
cards
:
Good
sense
their
pleasure
—
Virtue
still
their
guide
,
And
English
magnanimity
—
their
pride
.
Methinks
I
see
with
Fancy's
magic
eye
,
The
shade
of
Shakespear
,
in
yon
azure
sky
.
On
you
high
cloud
behold
the
bard
advance
,
Piercing
all
Nature
with
a
single
glance
:
In
various
attitudes
around
him
stand
The
passions
,
waiting
for
his
dread
command
.
First
kneeling
Love
before
his
feet
appears
,
And
musically
sighing
melts
in
tears
.
Near
him
fell
Jealousy
with
fury
burns
,
And
into
storms
the
amorous
breathings
turns
;
Then
Hope
with
heavenward
look
,
and
Joy
draws
near
,
While
palsied
Terror
trembles
in
the
rear
.
Such
Shakespear's
train
of
horror
and
delight
,
And
such
we
hope
to
introduce
to-night
.
But
if
,
tho'
just
in
thought
,
we
fail
in
fact
,
And
good
intention
ripens
not
to
act
,
Weigh
our
design
,
your
censure
still
defer
,
When
truth's
in
view
'tis
glorious
e'en
to
err
.
EPILOGUE
.
Spoken
by
DESDEMONA
.
TRUE
woman
to
the
last
—
my
peroration
I
come
to
speak
in
spight
of
suffocation
;
To
shew
the
present
and
the
age
to
come
,
We
may
be
choak'd
,
but
never
can
be
dumb
.
Well
now
methinks
I
see
you
all
run
out
,
And
haste
away
to
Lady
Bragwell's
rout
;
Each
modish
sentiment
to
hear
and
weigh
,
Of
those
who
nothing
think
,
and
all
things
say
.
Prudella
first
in
parody
begins
,
(
For
Nonsense
and
Buffoonery
are
twins
)
"
Can
beaux
the
court
for
theatres
exchange
?
"
I
swear
by
Heaven
'tis
strange
,
'tis
passing
strange
;
"
And
very
whimsical
,
and
mighty
dull
,
"
And
pitiful
,
and
wond'rous
pitiful
:
"
I
wish
I
had
not
heard
it
—
Blessed
dame
!
Whene'er
she
speaks
her
audience
wish
the
same
.
Next
Neddy
Nicely
—
"
Fye
,
O
fye
,
good
lack
,
"
A
nasty
man
to
make
his
face
all
black
.
"
Then
Lady
Stiffneck
shews
her
pious
rage
,
And
wonders
we
shou'd
act
—
upon
a
stage
.
"
Why
,
ma'me
,
says
Coquetilla
,
a
disgrace
?
"
Merit
in
any
form
may
shew
her
face
:
"
In
this
dull
age
the
male
things
ought
to
play
,
"
To
teach
them
what
to
do
,
and
what
to
say
.
"
In
short
,
they
all
with
different
cavils
cram
us
,
And
only
are
unanimous
to
damn
us
.
But
still
there
are
a
fair
judicious
few
,
Who
judge
unbiass'd
,
and
with
candour
view
;
Who
value
honesty
,
tho'
clad
in
buff
,
And
wit
,
tho'
dress'd
in
an
old
English
ruff
.
Behold
them
here
—
I
beaming
sense
descry
,
Shot
from
the
living
lustre
of
each
eye
.
Such
meaning
smiles
each
blooming
face
adorn
,
As
deck
the
pleasure-painted
brow
of
morn
;
And
shew
the
person
of
each
matchless
fair
,
Tho'
rich
to
rapture
,
and
above
compare
,
Is
,
even
with
all
the
skill
of
heaven
design'd
,
But
an
imperfect
image
of
their
mind
;
While
chastity
unblemish'd
and
unbrib'd
Adds
a
majestic
mien
that
scorns
to
be
describ'd
:
Such
,
we
will
vaunt
,
and
only
such
as
these
,
'Tis
our
ambition
,
and
our
fame
to
please
.