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And while, a paltry ftipend earning,
He sows the richest feeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And fees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile
His own lies fallow all the while.

" Yet still he's in the road, you say, « Of learning."—Why, perhaps, he may. But turns like horses in a mill, Nor getting on, nor standing still: For little way his learning reaches, Who reads no more than what he teaches.

“ Yet you can send advent’rous youth, “ In search of letters, taste, and truth, " Who ride the highway road to knowledge Through the plain turnpikes of a college,". True.-Like way-posts, we serve to shew The road which travellers should go; Who jog along in easy pace, Secure of coming to the place, Yet find, return whene'er they will, The Poft, and its directiou still: Which stands an useful unthank'd guide, To many a passenger beside.

'Tis hard to carve for others meat, And not have time one's self to eat, Though, be it always understood, Our appetites are full as good.

« But there have been, and proofs appear, r Who bore this load from year to year ;

a

ro Whose

В 4

• Whose claim to letters, parts, and wit,
• The world has ne'er disputed yet.
or Whether the flowing mirth prevail
In Wesley's fong, or humorous tale;
“ Or happier Bourne's expression please
“ With graceful turns of classic ease;
« Or Oxford's well-read poet fings
** Pathetic to the ear of kings:
• These have indulg'd the muses' fight,
« Nor lost their time or credit by't;
« Nor suffer'd fancy's dreams to prey
66 On the due business of the day.
“ Verse was to them a recreation
66 Us'd by way of relaxation.”

Your instances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage spread
Its greenest honours round their head,
Blest, if the Muses' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!

Come,--I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of fight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indiscreet.
Yet tell me, while you

censure me, Are you

from error sound and free? Say, does

your breast no bias hide, Whose influence draws the mind afide?

All

me.

All have their hobby-horse, you see,
From Tristram down to you and
Ambition, splendour, máy be thine ;
Ease, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,
And set their hedges up before 'em,
Some Sprouts will branch, and ftraggle o'er 'em,
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,
And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
"Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools shall cackle out reproof,
The
very

afs shall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his possession,
The single virtue of discretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of paffions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgement flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and seem wise,

Τ Η Ε Τ Η Ε

ACT O R.

ADDRESSED TO BONNEL THORNTON, ESQ.

a

A
CTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws,

From no observance of mechanic laws :
No settled maxims of a favorite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.
If, ʼmongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted so
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov’d he Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone ?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius must our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.

Thrice happy Genius, whose unrivalid name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill,
The train of captive passions at thy will ;
To bid the bursting tear spontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of sympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chilness creep,

,
When horrors such as thine have murder'd sleep;

And

And at the old man's look and frantic ftare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I see him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The Comic Muse too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requisite to please,
Tafte, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Ease,
Familiar Nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool.
With powers fo pliant, and so various bleft,
That what we see the last, we like the beit.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burst outrageous with the laugh of senfe.
Perfection's top,

with
weary

toil and pain,
'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The Play'r's profession (though I hate the phrase,
'Tis fo mechanic in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowledge is the only art.'
The strong-felt passion bolts into his face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace!
To this one standard make your juft appeal,
Here lies the golden secret; learn to feel.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distrest,
No actor pleases that is not posess'd.

Once on the stage, in Rome's declining days,
When Christians were the subject of their plays,
E'er persecution dropp'd her iron rod,
And men still wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's disciple, and Genest his name.

A noble

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