The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps The fluent summer's vein; and drizzling sleet Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numbed earth, While snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leavesFrom the nak'd shuddering branch, and pills the skin From off the soft and delicate aspects. O now methinks a sullen tragic scene Would suit the time with pleasing congruence. May we be happy in our weak devoir, And all part pleased in most wished content. But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaim, If any spirit breathes within this round Uncapable of weighty passion, (As from his birth being hugged in the arms And nuzzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness) Who winks and shuts his apprehension up Of common sense of what men were, and are; Who would not know what men must be; let such Hurry amain from our black-visaged shows, We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast Nailed to the earth with grief, if any heart Pierced through with anguish pant within this ring, If there be any blood whose heat is choked And stifled with true sense of misery; If aught of these strains fill his consort up, They arrive most welcome. O that our power Could lackey or keep wing with our desires, That with unused poise of style and sense We might weigh massy in judicious scale! Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes; When our scenes falter or invention halts, Your favour will give crutches to our faults. |