And while, a paltry ftipend earning,
He fows 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 ftill he's in the road, you fay,
"Of learning."-Why, perhaps, he may.
But turns like horfes in a mill,
Nor getting on, nor ftanding ftill:
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.
"Yet you can fend advent'rous youth,
"In fearch of letters, tafte, and truth,
"Who ride the highway road to knowledge
"Through the plain turnpikes of a college,"
True.-Like way-pofts, we ferve to fhew
The road which travellers should go;
Who jog along in eafy pace,

Secure of coming to the place,
Yet find, return whene'er they will,
The Poff, and its direction ftill:
Which stands an ufeful unthank'd guide,
To many a paffenger befide.

'Tis hard to carve for others meat, And not have time one's felf to eat. Though, be it always understood,

Our appetites are full as good.

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

"Whofe claim to letters, parts, and wit,
"The world has ne'er difputed yet.
"Whether the flowing mirth prevail
"In Wesley's fong, or humorous tale;
"Or happier Bourne's expreffion please
"With graceful turns of claffic ease;
"Or Oxford's well-read poet fings
Pathetic to the ear of kings:
"These have indulg'd the mufes' flight,
"Nor loft their time or credit by't;
"Nor fuffer'd fancy's dreams to prey
"On the due bufinefs of the day.
"Verfe was to them a recreation
"Us'd by way of relaxation."

Your inftances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I feek to blast no scholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage spread
Its greeneft honours round their head,
Bleft, if the Mufes' hand entwine
A fprig 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 indifcreet.
Yet tell

Are

cenfure me,

me, while you you from error found and free? Say, does your breast no bias hide,

Whofe influence draws the mind afide?

All

All have their hobby-horfe, you fee,
From Triftram down to you and me.
Ambition, fplendour, may be thine;
Eafe, 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 ftill,

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 fhall cackle out reproof,
The very afs fhall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his poffeffion,
The fingle 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 feem wife.

THE

ТНЕ АСтоR.

ADDRESSED TO BONNEL THORNTON, ESQ.

CTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws,
From no obfervance of mechanic laws:

No fettled maxims of a favʼrite 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, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted fo
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 muft our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.

Thrice happy Genius, whofe unrival'd name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear fpontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of sympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chilness creep,
When horrors fuch as thine have murder'd sleep;

And

And at the old man's look and frantic ftare 'Tis Lear alarms me, for I fee him there.

Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,

The Comic Mufe too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requifite to please,
Tafte, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Eafe,
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 best.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burft outrageous with the laugh of fenfe.
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The Play'r's profeffion (though I hate the phrafe,
'Tis fo mechanic in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowledge is the only art.'
The ftrong-felt paffion bolts into his face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace!
To this one standard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden fecret; learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distrest,
No actor pleases that is not poffefs'd.

Once on the stage, in Rome's declining days,
When Chriftians were the fubject of their plays,
E'er perfecution 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 difciple, and Genest his name.

A noble