Stood forth and thrice he wav'd his lilly hand-
And thrice he twirl'd his tye-thrice ftrok'd his band.-
"At friendship's call (thus oft with trait'rous aim,
Men, void of faith, ufurp faith's facred name)
"At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy fent,
،، Who thus by me developes his intent.
"But left, transfus'd, the fpirit should be loft,
، That fpirit which in ftorms of Rhetric toft,
"Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer,
"In his own words his own intentions hear.
"Thanks to my friends.-But to vile fortunes born,
،، No robes of fur there fhoulders muft adorn.
"Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw;
"Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law?
"Twice (curs'd remembrance!) twice I strove to gain
"Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train,
،، Who, in the Temple and Gray's-Inn, prepare
"For clients wretched feet the legal fnare:
،، Dead to thofe arts which polifh and refine,
"Deaf to all worth, becaufe that worth was mine,
"Twice did thofe blockheads ftartle at my name,
"And foul rejection gave me up to shame.
"To laws and lawyers then I bad adieu,
"And plans of far more lib'ral note pursue.
"Who will may be a judge-my kindling breast
"Burns for that chair which Rofcius once poffefs'd.
"Here give your votes, your int'relt here exert,
And let fuccefs for once attend defert."
With fleek appearance, and with ambling pace,
And, type of vacant head, with vacant face,
The Proteus Hill put in his modeft plea,-
،، Let Favour fpeak for others, Worth for me."
For who, like him, his various powers could call
Into fo many shapes, and fhine in all ?
Who could fo nobly grace the motley lift,
Actor, infpector, doctor, botanist ?

Knows any one fo well-fure no one knows,-
At once to play, prefcribe, compound, compofe?
Who can-but Woodward came, Hill flipp'd away,
Melting, like ghofts, before the rifing day.

* With that lozo Cunning, which in fools fupplies,
And amply too, the place of being wife,
Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave
To qualify the blockhead for a knave;
With that fmooth Falfhood, whofe appearance charms,
And reafon of each wholfome doubt difarms,
Which to the loweft depths of guile defcends,
By vileft means pursues the vileft ends,
Wears friendship's mask for purposes of spite,
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant Envy, which turns pale,
And fickens, even if a friend prevail,
Which merit and fuccefs purfues with hate,
And damns the worth it cannot imitate;
With the cold Caution of a coward's fpleen,
Which fears not guilt, but always feeks a fcreen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view-
What's bafely done, fhould be done safely too;
With that dull, rooted, callous Impudence,
Which, dead to fhame, and ev'ry nicer fenfe,
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in fpreading Vice's fnares,
She blunder'd on fore virtue unawares j

With all these bleffings, which we seldom find
Lavish'd by nature on one happy mind,

A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe,
Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen defcribe,
Came fimp'ring on; to ascertain whose sex
Twelve, fage, impannell'd matrons would perplex
Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both;
Of neater gender, though of Irish growth;
A fix-foot fuckling, mincing in its gait ;
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate;
Fearful it feem'd, tho' of athletic make,
Leit brutal breezes fhould too roughly fhake
Its tender form, and favage motion spread,
O'er its pale cheek, the horrid manly red.

Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrafe,
Of genius and of tafte, of play'rs and plays;
Much too of writings, which itfelf had wrote,
Of special merit, tho' of little note;
For Fate, in a ftrange humour, had decreed
That what it wrote, none but itself should read ;
Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws,
Misjudging critics, and mifplac'd applause,
Then, with a felf-complacent jutting air,
It fmil'd, it fmirk'd, it wriggled to the chair;
And, with an aukward brifknefs not its own,
Looking around, and perking on the throne,
Triumphant feem'd, when that strange savage dame,
Known but to few, or only known by name,
Plain Common Senfe appear'd, by Nature there
Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair.
The pageant faw, and blafted with her frown,
To its first state of nothing melted down.

Nor fhall the Mufe (for even there the pride
Of this vain nothing fhall be mortified)
Nor fhall the Mufe (fhould Fate ordain her rimes,
Fond, pleafing thought ! to live in after-times)
With fuch a trifler's name her pages blot;
Known be the character, the thing forgot;
Let it, to difappoint each future aim,
Live roithout ex, and die withont a name !

Cold-blooded critics, by enervate fires
Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires
Glimmer'd their laft; whofe fluggish blood half
froze,

Creeps lab'ring thro' the veins; whose heart ne'er
glows

With fancy-kindled heat ;-a fervile race,
Who in mere want of fault, all merit place;
Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools,
Bigots to Greece, and flaves to mufty rules;
With folemn confequence declar'd that none
Could judge that cause but Sophocles alone.
Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd,
Obfequious to the facred dictate, bow'd.

When, from amidst the throng, a youth stood
forth,

Unknown his perfon, not unknown his worth;
His look bespoke applaufe; alone he stood,
Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood.
He talk'd of ancients, as the man became
Who priz'd our own, but envied not their fame;
With noble rev'rence spoke of Greece and Rome,
And scorn'd to tear the laurels from the tomb.
،، But more than juft to other countries grown,

*This fevere character was intended for Mr. Fitz-
patrick, a perfon who had rendered himself remarka-"Must we turn bafe apoftates to our own?

ble by his activity in the play-house riots of 1763,"Where do thefe words of Greece and Rome relative to the taking half prices. He was the hero

of Garrick's Fribbleriad.

E.

excel,

"That England may not please the ear as well?

Sir Michael Fofter, one of the Judges of the By fortune thrown on any other stage, King's Bench. He might, perhaps, have pleas'd an eafy age;

But now appears a copy and no more,

Of fomething better we have seen before.
The actor who would build a folid fame,
Muft imitation's fervile arts difclaim;'
Act from himfelf, on his own bottom stand;
I hate e'en Garrick thus at fecond-hand.

Behind came King.-Bred up in modest lore,
Bafhful and young he fought Hibernia's shore ;
Hibernia, fam'd, 'bove ev'ry other grace,
For matchlefs intrepidity of face.

From her his features caught the gen'rous flame,
And bid defiance to all fenfe of shame.
Tutor'd by her all rivals to furpafs,

'Mongft Drury's fons he comes, and fhines in Brass.
Lo Yates Without the leaft fineffe of art
He gets applaufe-I wish he'd get his part.
When hot impatience is in full career,
How vilely Hark'e! Hark'e!" grates the ear?
When active fancy from the brain is fent,
And ftands on tip-toe for fome wish'd event,
I hate thofe careless blunders which recall
Sufpended fenfe, and prove it fiction all.

In characters of low and vulgar mould,
Where Nature's coarseft features we behold,
Where, deftitute of ev'ry decent grace,
Unmanner'd jefts are blurted in your face,
There Yates with juftice ftrict attention draws,
Acts truly from himself, and gains applause.
But when to please himself or charm his wife,
He aims at fomething in politer life,
When, blindly thwarting Nature's stubborn plan,
He treads the stage, by way of gentleman,
The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows,
Looks like Tom Errand drefs'd in Clincher's
cloaths.

Fond of his dress, fond of his perfon grown,
Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown,
From fide to fide he ftruts, he fmiles, he prates,
And seems to wonder what's become of Yates.

Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face,
Great mafter in the fcience of grimace,
From Ireland ventures, fav'rite of the town,
Lur'd by the pleafing profpect of renown;
A fpeaking Harlequin, made up of whim,
He twifts, he twines, he tortures ev'ry limb,
Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art,
And leaves to fenfe the conqueft of the heart.
We laugh indeed, but on reflection's birth,
We wonder at ourfelves, and curfe our mirth.
His walk of parts he fatally misplac'd,
And inclination fondly took for taste;
Hence hath the town so often seen display'd
Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.
But when bold wits, not fuch as patch up plays,
Cold and correct, in thefe infipid days,
Some comic character, ftrong featur'd, urge
To probability's extremeft verge,
Where modeft judgment her decree fufpends,
And for a time, nor cenfures, nor commends,
Where critics can't determine on the spot,
Whether it is in Nature found or not,
There Woodward fafely fhall his pow'rs exert,
Nor fail of favour where he fhews defert.
Hence he in Bobadil fuch praises bore,
Such worthy praises, Kitely scarce had more.
By turns transform'd into all kinds of shapes,
Conitant to none, Foote laughs, cries, ftruts and
fcrapes;

Now in the centre, now in van or rear,
The Proteus fhifts, Bawd, Parfon, Auctioneer.
His ftrokes of humour, and his bursts of sport,
Are all contain'd in this one word, Diflort.

Doth a man ftutter, look a-fquint, or halt?
Mimics draw humour out of Nature's fault,
With perfonal defects their mirth adorn,
And hang misfortunes out to public fcorn.
E'en I, whom nature caft in hideous mould,
Whom, having made, fhe trembled to behold,
Beneath the load of mimicry may groan,
And find that Nature's error are my own.

Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came;
Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name.
Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,
That even fhadows have their shadows too!
With not a fingle comic pow'r endu'd,
The first a mere mere mimic's mimic ftood;
The laft by Nature form'd to please, who fhews,
In Jonfon's Stephen, which way Genius grows;
Self quite put off, affects, with too much art,
To put on Woodward in each mangled part;
Adopts his fhrug, his wink, his ftare; nay, more,
His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd be-
fore.

When a dull copier fimple grace neglects.
And refts his imitation in defects,
We readily forgive; but fuch vile arts
Are double guilt in men of real parts.

By Nature form'd in her perverfest mood,
With no one requifite of art endu'd,
Next Jackfon came. Obferve that settled glare,
Which better speaks a puppet than a player:
Lift to that voice-did ever Difcord hear
Sounds fo well fitted to her untun'd ear?
When, to enforce fome very tender part,
The right-hand fleeps by inctinct on the heart,
His foul, of every other thought bereft,
Is anxious only where to place the left;
He fobs and pants to foothe his weeping spouse,
To foothe his weeping mother, turns and bows.
Aukward, embarrafs'd, ftiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully, or standing still,
One leg, as if fufpicious of his brother,
Defirous feems to run away from t'other.

Some errors, handed down from age to age,
Plead cuftom's force, and ftill poffefs the ftage,
That's vile-Should we a parent's faults adore,
And err, because our fathers err'd before;
If, inattentive to the author's mind,
Some actors made the jeft they could not find,
If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien,
And blurr'd the graces of the fimple scene,
Shall we, if reafon rightly is employ'd,
Not fee their faults, or feeing not avoid?
When Falstaff stands detected in a lye,
Why, without meaning, rolls Love's glaffy eye?
Why? There's no caufe-at least no cause we
know→→→→

It was the fashion twenty years ago.
Fashion, a word which knaves and fools may use
Their knavery and folly to excufe.

To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence
To fame to copy faults, is want of sense.

Yet (tho' in fome particulars he fails,
Some few particulars, where Mode prevails)
If in these hallow'd times, when fober, fad,
All gentlemen are melancholy mad,

When 'tis not deem'd fo great a crime by half
To violate a veftal, as to laugh,

Rude mirth may hope prefumptuous to engage
An act of Toleration for the stage,

And courtiers will, like reafonable creatures,
Sufpend vain fashion, and unfcrew their features,
Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, fhall pleafe once more,
And humour fet the audience in a roar.

Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name,
Who, being from one part poffefs'd of fame,
Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, of bawl,
Still introduce that fav'rite part in all.
Here, Love, be cautious-ne'er be thou betray'd
To call in that wag Falstaff's dang'rous aid;
Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend,
He'll feize that throne, you wish him to defend.
In a peculiar mould by Humour caft,

For Falstaff fram'd-Himself, the first and last-
He stands aloof from all-maintains his state,
And fcorns, like Scotfmen, to affimilate.
Vain all difguife-too plain we see the trick,
Tho' the Knight wears the weeds of Dominic,
And Boniface, difgrac'd, betrays the smack,
In Anno Domini, of Falftaff's fack.

Arms crofs'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet march-
ing flow,

A band of malecontents with spleen o'erflow;
Wrapt in conceit's impenetrable fog,
Which pride, like Phœbus, draws from ev'ry bog,
They curfe the Managers, and curfe the Town,
Whofe partial favours keeps fuch merit down.

But if fome man, more hardy than the reft,
Should dare attack these gnatlings in their neft;
At once they rife with impotence of rage,
Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage.
" "Tis breach of privilege!-Shall any dare
"To arm fatyric truth against a player?

Prescriptive rights we plead time out of mind;
"Actors, unlafh'd themselves, may lafh man-
"kind."

What! fhall opinion then, of Nature free
And lib'ral as the vagrant air, agree
To ruft in chains like thefe, impos'd by things
Which, lefs than nothing, ape the pride of kings;
No-though half-poets with half-players join
To curfe the freedom of each honeft line;
Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek;
What the mufe freely thinks, she'll freely speak.
With just difdain of ev'ry paltry fneer,
Stranger alike to flattery and fear,
In purpose fix'd and to herself a rule,
Public contempt fhall wait the public fool.

Auftin would always gliften in French filks,
Ackman would Norris be, and Packer Wilks.
For who, like Ackman, can with humour please;
Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly cafe?
Higher than all the reft, fee Bransby ftrut:
A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput!
Ludicrous Nature! which at once could fhew
A man fo very high, fo very low.

If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I fay
Aught hurtful, may I never fee thee play.
Let critic, with a fupercilious air,
Decry thy various merit, and declare
Frenchman is still at top ;-but fcorn that rage
Which, in attacking thee attacks the age.
French follies, univerfally embrac'd,

At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste,

Long, from a nation ever hardly us'd,
At random cenfur'd, wantonly abus'd,
Have Britons drawn their sport, with partial view
Form'd gen'ral notions from the rafcal few ;
Condemn'd a people as for vices known,
Which, from their country banifh'd, feek our own.
At length, howe'er, the flavish chain is broke,
And Senfe awaken'd, fcorns her ancient yoke :
Taught by thee, Moody, we now learn to raise
Mirth from their foibles, from their virtues, praife.

Next came the legion, which our Summer Bayes,
From alleys, here and there, contriv'd to raise,
Flush'd with vaft hopes, and certain to fucceed
With Wits who cannot write, and scarce can read.
Vet'rans no more fupport the rotten cause,
No more from Elliot's worth they reap applause;
Each on himself determines to rely,
Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly.
Never did play'rs fo well an author fit,
To Nature dead, and foes declared to Wit.
So loud each tongue, fo empty was each head,
So much they talk'd, fo very little faid,
So wond'rous dull, and yet fo wond'rous vain,
At once fo willing, and unfit to reign,
That Reafon fwore, nor would the oath recall,
Their mighty master's foul inform'd them all.

As one with various disappointments fad,
Whom Dullness only kept from being mad,
Apart from all the rest great Murphy came-
Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame.
What tho' the fons of Nonfenfe hail him SIRE,
AUDITOR, AUTHOR, MANAGER, and SQUIRE,
His reftlefs foul's ambition stops not there,
To make his triumphs perfect, dub him PLAYER.
In perfon tall, a perfon form'd to please,
If fymmetry could charm, depriv'd of ease;
When motionless he stands, we all approve,
What pity 'tis the Thing was made to move.

His voice, in one dull, deep, and varied found,
Seems to break forth from caverns under ground.
From hollow cheft the low fepulchral note
Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat.

Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace,
All must to him refign the foremost place.
When he attempts, in fome fav'rite part,
ape the feelings of a manly heart,
His honeft features the difguife defy,
And his face loudly gives his tongue the lye.

To

Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean,
Or raving mad, or ftupidly ferene.

In cold-wrought fcenes the lifeless actor flags,
In paffion, tears the paffion into rags.

Can none remember ?-Yes-I know all must-
When in the Moor he ground his teeth to duft,
When o'er the stage he Folly's ftandard bore,
Whilft Common-Senfe ftood trembling at the door.
How few are found with real talents blefs'd,
Fewer with Nature's gifts contented rest.
Man from his fphere eccentric ftarts aftray;
All hunt for fame; but most mistake the way.
Bred at St. Omer's to the fhuffling trade,
The hopeful youth a Jefuit might have made,
With various readings ftor'd his empty kull,
Learn'd without fenfe, and venerably dull;
Or, at fome banker's desk, like many more,
Content to tell that two and two make four,
His name had ftood in CITY ANNALS fair,
And prudent Dullness mark'd him for a Mayor.