Why, fifter, all the world must fee
How much this makes for you
No longer now shall we expofe
Our unbought goods to empty rows,
Or meanly be oblig❜d to court
From foreign aid a weak fupport;
No more the poor polluted scene
Shall teem with births of Harlequin ;
Or vindicated stage shall feel
The infults of the dancer's heel.
Such idle trash we'll kindly spare
To operas now-they'll want them there,
For Sadler's-Wells, they fay, this year
Has quite undone their engineer.
Pugh, you're a wag, the buskin'd prude
Reply'd, and fmil'd; befides 'tis rude
To laugh at foreigners, you know,
And triumph o'er a vanquish'd foe:
For
my part, I shall be content
If things fucceed as they are meant ;
And should not be displeas'd to find
Some changes of the tragick kind.
And fay, THALIA, mayn't we hope
The ftage will take a larger fcope?
Shall he whofe all-expreffive powers
Can reach the heights that SHAKESPEAR foars,
Defcend to touch an humbler key
And tickle ears with poetry;
Where every tear is taught to flow
Thro' many a line's melodious woe,
And heart-felt pangs of deep diftrefs
Are fritter'd into fimiles?
-O thou, whom nature taught the art
To pierce, to cleave, to tear the heart,
Whatever name delight thine ear,
OTHELLO, RICHARD, HAMLET, LEAR,
O undertake my just defence,
And banish all but nature hence!
See, to thy aid with ftreaming eyes
The fair afflicted* CONSTANCE flies;
Now wild as winds in madness tears
Her heaving breafts, and fcatter'd hairs;
Or low on earth disdains relief
With all the confcious pride of grief.
My PRITCHARD too in HAMLET's queen-
'The goddess of the sportive vein
Here ftop'd her fhort, and, with a fneer,
My PRITCHARD, if you please, my dear!
Her tragick merit I confess,
But furely mine's her proper dress ;
Behold her there with native ease
And native spirit, born to please;
With all MARIA's charms engage,
Or MILWOOD's arts, or TOUCHWOOD's rage,
Thro'
every foible trace the fair,
Or leave the town, and toilet's care
To chaunt in forefts unconfin'd
The wilder notes of ROSALIND.
O thou, where-e'er thou fix thy praife,
BRUTE, DRUGGER, FRIBBLE, RANGER, BAYS
O join with her in my behalf,
And teach an audience when to laugh.
So fhall buffoons with fhame repair
To draw in fools at Smithfield fair,
And real humour charm the age,
Tho' + FALSTAFF fhould forfake the stage.
She spoke. MELPOMENE reply'd,
And much was faid on either fide ;
And many a chief, and many a fair,
Were mention'd to their credit there.
But I'll not venture to display
What goddesses think fit to say.
However, GARRICK, this at least
Appears by both a truth confefs'd,
That their whole fate for many a year
But hangs on your paternal care.
A nation's tafte depends on you.
-Perhaps a nation's virtue too.
O think how glorious 'twere to raise
A theatre to virtue's praise.
Where no indignant blush might rife,
Nor wit be taught to plead for vice:
Imbibe the precepts, living there.
+ Mr. Quin, inimitable in that character, who was then
And every unexperienc'd breast
There feel its own rude hints exprefs'd,
And, waken'd by the glowing fcene,
Unfold the worth that lurks within.
If poffible, be perfect quite;
A few fhort zules will guide you right.
Confult your own good fenfe in all,
Be deaf to fafhion's fickle call,
Nor e'er defcend from reafon's laws
To court what you command, applause.
LY hypocrite! was this
To borrow Pæon's facred name,
And lurk beneath his graver mien,
To trace the fecrets of my reign?
Did I for this applaud your zeal,
And point out each minuter wheel,
Which finely taught the next to roll,
And made my works one perfect whole?
For who, but I, till you appear'd
To model the dramatick herd,
E'er bade to wond'ring ears and eyes,
Such pleafing intricacies rife ?
Where every part is nicely true,
Yet touches ftill fome mafter clue;
Each riddle opening by degrees,
"Till all unravels with fuch ease,
That only thofe who will be blind
Can feel one doubt perplex their mind.
Nor was't enough, you thought, to write,
But you muft impiously unite
With GARRICK too, who long before
Had ftole my whole expreffive pow'r.
That changeful Proteus of the stage
Ufurps my mirth, my grief, my rage;
And as his different parts incline,
Gives joys or pains, fincere as mine.
Yet you fhall find (howe'er elate
You triumph in your former cheat)
"Tis not so easy to escape
In Nature's as in Pæon's fhape.
For every critick, great or small,
Hates every thing that's natural.
The beaus, and ladies too, can fay,
What does he mean? is this a play?
We fee fuch people every day.
Nay more, to chafe, and teize your spleen,
And teach you how to fteal again,
My very fools fhall prove you're bit,
And damn you for your want of wit.
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