Ye plodding book-worms, with just sense at best,
To praise what others praise—and damn the rest,
Think not to court your smiles I strike my lyre,
Or to appease your wrath—my aim is higher.
Were you my judges, I suspect your hate
Would doom me to the poor Italian's fate;
The luckless d' Ascoli,* ^note

To you I'd say, great Shakespeare's soaring strains
Have joyed my happier hours; in grief have soothed my pains.

From early youth I've worshipped at his shrine,
And dwelt with rapture on his lofty line,
Pored o'er his verse beside my native streams,
And found him oft companion of my dreams.
And even now, when worldly duties urge,
And drive me forth on Fortune's giddy surge:
When cares perplex and agitate my mind,
Still, still a solace 'mid those cares I find;
What time, retiring from the busy scene,
Beneath some mossy grot or arbour green,
To his lov'd muse I consecrate the hour,
Forgetful of the ills that o'er me lower.
With thoughts like these, shall I not scorn the blame
From stupid churls of trifling with his name;
Or aiming in this low, degenerate age,
To dim the splendid lustre of his page?
Ah yes! while conscious of no aim impure,
Well can my eye the pedant's frown endure—
The critic's sneer, and all the little scorn
Of those, whom neither wit nor sense adorn.

PREFACE.

It is doubtless incumbent on me to make some kind of apology for sending forth into the world a Travesty on the writings of the immortal Shakespeare; but at the same time that I acknowledge this, I cannot forbear observing that the utter contempt in which I have ever held certain animals ycleped Pedants, who cry down any and every work which has not for its basis a classical and bombastic foundation, prevents me in the present instance from apologizing in the way I otherwise should, lest it may be considered that I do so out of deference to their opinions.

Instead of a direct apology therefore, I shall content myself by giving a reason; and of the two, perhaps the latter is preferable. But here I shall run the risk of incurring the same degree of ridicule I have never failed to attach to the characters of stiff and scholastic antiquarians, since my reason is grounded on the history of ancient days, when the Athenians and other learned Grecian states, and not long subsequent to them, the Romans, were so eminently conspicuous among the surrounding nations for refined sentiment and elegant literature. To come to the point at once: It is well known that deep tragedies were considered by the ancients as being often productive of dangerous consequences to society; and I am strongly inclined to think they may sometimes do mischief in the present day, unless people are occasionally put on their guard through the medium of burlesque, not to give way too much to the feelings they are likely to excite.* ^note

of the fact, but have been told and believe that the melancholy catastrophe of the hapless lovers in the interesting Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, had such an effect on a young lady, who had been cruelly separated from her lover by the stern mandates of her Father, that she followed the example of the unfortunate heroine in the play, and committed suicide. It was this circumstance which first induced me to write the present Travesty, which however I freely confess would never have been published, but for that of Hamlet, which I accidently read and was exceedingly diverted with. The sacrilege having been committed, and the work received with good humour by the public, I was tempted to send this little book to the press, and boldly to run the risk of the heavy charge which I foresaw might be laid against me by some cynical reviewer, of want-only sinning against the Tragic Muse.

The scene where the Funeral procession of Juliet is represented has been altogether omitted, and other matter introduced instead, the subject not being calculated to admit of burlesque.

I have also taken the liberty of omitting in the present work, all the indelicate passages in the original; which, albeit not over nice in trifles myself, I consider highly improper to be circulated among the public; for surely it is neither the province of true gallantry nor wit, be the vices of the age what they may, to shock the feelings of our fair countrywomen by indecent bagatelles and double entendres.

That I may not be imagined guilty of a particular desire to burlesque Shakespeare, it will be seen that I have followed up the popular Catastrophe as altered by Garrick; and now, having already said more than sufficient on this subject, I shall hastily dismiss it, and without any further preamble consign it to its fate.

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