The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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| 3. | The Third Part. |
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
253
3. The Third Part.
On a Sweet Verdant Plain methought I stood,
Just by a Hill crown'd with a Spacious Wood:
One lonely Path (which now I'd enter'd in)
Led from the Lawn up thro' the Silvan Scene.
On Pleas'd I went directly to the Grove,
The Silent kind Retreat of Rural Love.
The Rising Sun had now its Entrance made
Ten thousand ways, and Chequer'd all the Shade.
Thick lay the Dew, and, just like Diamonds Bright,
Sent thro' the leafy Arch reflected Light;
High on the Boughs were pearch'd the Feather'd Choir,
Their more Ambitious Notes ascending higher:
Each Emulating each, and plac'd apart,
Try'd all the sweet Contentions of their Art:
Now I observ'd the Tuneful Challenge here
Then how in Heav'nly Strains 'twas Answer'd there;
Neither the best, yet both above Compare.
Mean while, as with Design, a Balmy Breeze,
Rising and falling Gently by degrees,
Fann'd all the Sweets of Flora thro' the Trees.
Nothing there wanted but the Fruit of Gold
To vye with the Hesperian Grove of old.
Ah! Heav'n, I cry'd, what Happiness there dwells
In Humble Huts and unfrequented Cells!
In some low Cottage by this Copses side,
How safely does the Country Swain reside!
How undisturb'd when down to Rest he lies!
How Joyful when the Glorious Sun does rise!
This Musick in his Ears, this Scene before his Eyes!
Ah! might I once so blest a Fortune know,
How Gladly I'd the Chase of Fame forgo?
No more I wou'd the Stingy Great rehearse,
And sing their Names in Panegyrick Verse:
No more I wou'd attempt the Tragick Strain,
When (after all th'Expence of Time and Pain)
One Female Player's Breath makes all my Labours vain.
Just by a Hill crown'd with a Spacious Wood:
One lonely Path (which now I'd enter'd in)
Led from the Lawn up thro' the Silvan Scene.
On Pleas'd I went directly to the Grove,
The Silent kind Retreat of Rural Love.
The Rising Sun had now its Entrance made
Ten thousand ways, and Chequer'd all the Shade.
Thick lay the Dew, and, just like Diamonds Bright,
Sent thro' the leafy Arch reflected Light;
High on the Boughs were pearch'd the Feather'd Choir,
Their more Ambitious Notes ascending higher:
Each Emulating each, and plac'd apart,
Try'd all the sweet Contentions of their Art:
Now I observ'd the Tuneful Challenge here
Then how in Heav'nly Strains 'twas Answer'd there;
Neither the best, yet both above Compare.
Mean while, as with Design, a Balmy Breeze,
Rising and falling Gently by degrees,
Fann'd all the Sweets of Flora thro' the Trees.
Nothing there wanted but the Fruit of Gold
To vye with the Hesperian Grove of old.
Ah! Heav'n, I cry'd, what Happiness there dwells
In Humble Huts and unfrequented Cells!
254
How safely does the Country Swain reside!
How undisturb'd when down to Rest he lies!
How Joyful when the Glorious Sun does rise!
This Musick in his Ears, this Scene before his Eyes!
Ah! might I once so blest a Fortune know,
How Gladly I'd the Chase of Fame forgo?
No more I wou'd the Stingy Great rehearse,
And sing their Names in Panegyrick Verse:
No more I wou'd attempt the Tragick Strain,
When (after all th'Expence of Time and Pain)
One Female Player's Breath makes all my Labours vain.
With Contemplations such as these I pass'd
Thro' the Steep Glade, and reach'd the Top at last;
Then, looking down, beheld below a Scene
Of Booths and People stragg'ling on the Green;
A various Mixture of each Sex intent
I drinking saw, and wonder'd what it meant.
Advancing nearer, soon the Cause appear'd
That drew together the Promiscuous Herd;
'Twas Water, Dullwych Waters, which they quaff'd
As Porters do their Belch—a Pint a Draught:
Till gorg'd at length, in Squadrons they withdraw
T'emit their Grief,—nor Decency a Law:
So thick they under ev'ry Bush appear,
You'd verily believe the Town was clear,
And all it's filthy Rabble Purging here.
Such Min'eral Fountains other Bards may sing;
To me they're all beneath a Common Spring.
If Instinct never for the worse does chuse,
Why shou'd we drink what Birds and Beasts refuse?
With Crudities th'Internal Parts they fill,
And the bleak Poison thro' the Blood instill,
Weaken the Sick, and make the Healthy Ill;
For, after all, we must new Methods find
To purge away the Dreggs they leave behind.
The Doctors say, indeed they'll wonders do;—
But Mountebanks commend their Ratsbane too.
In short the Waters to Physicians are
The same as Rogue-Attorneys to the Bar;
These work for Law, and those for Physick raise,
And so will do to all Succeeding Days,
While there the Client, here the Patient Pays.
But grant the Doctor all he'd have, and more;
Why must those Suit the Rich and these the Poor,
When Nature, in the Structure of our Frame,
Has of one Flesh made all Mankind the same?
The Cits are bid to Epsom to Resort,
And Tunbridge is Prescrib'd for those at Court;
While Dullwych only serves for those Degrees
That cannot rise to be Destroy'd for Fees:
For grosser Allum, being less Genteel,
Must not pretend to vye with those of Steel:
To ease the Rich, thus, Urine is the Rule,
And Poverty must be Reliev'd by Stool.
O Dotage! which no Age but ours cou'd be
So fond of, as distinctly not to see;
For whatsoe'er the Water-Mongers think
The Vertues are of this their Mine'ral Drink,
If heedfully the true Effects they'd mind
Of being at the Wells, they'd quickly find
The Ease they feel, and all the Health they share,
Is only due (while they continue there)
To Temperance, Exercise, and Country Air.
Thro' the Steep Glade, and reach'd the Top at last;
Then, looking down, beheld below a Scene
Of Booths and People stragg'ling on the Green;
A various Mixture of each Sex intent
I drinking saw, and wonder'd what it meant.
Advancing nearer, soon the Cause appear'd
That drew together the Promiscuous Herd;
'Twas Water, Dullwych Waters, which they quaff'd
As Porters do their Belch—a Pint a Draught:
Till gorg'd at length, in Squadrons they withdraw
T'emit their Grief,—nor Decency a Law:
So thick they under ev'ry Bush appear,
You'd verily believe the Town was clear,
And all it's filthy Rabble Purging here.
Such Min'eral Fountains other Bards may sing;
To me they're all beneath a Common Spring.
If Instinct never for the worse does chuse,
Why shou'd we drink what Birds and Beasts refuse?
With Crudities th'Internal Parts they fill,
And the bleak Poison thro' the Blood instill,
Weaken the Sick, and make the Healthy Ill;
255
To purge away the Dreggs they leave behind.
The Doctors say, indeed they'll wonders do;—
But Mountebanks commend their Ratsbane too.
In short the Waters to Physicians are
The same as Rogue-Attorneys to the Bar;
These work for Law, and those for Physick raise,
And so will do to all Succeeding Days,
While there the Client, here the Patient Pays.
But grant the Doctor all he'd have, and more;
Why must those Suit the Rich and these the Poor,
When Nature, in the Structure of our Frame,
Has of one Flesh made all Mankind the same?
The Cits are bid to Epsom to Resort,
And Tunbridge is Prescrib'd for those at Court;
While Dullwych only serves for those Degrees
That cannot rise to be Destroy'd for Fees:
For grosser Allum, being less Genteel,
Must not pretend to vye with those of Steel:
To ease the Rich, thus, Urine is the Rule,
And Poverty must be Reliev'd by Stool.
O Dotage! which no Age but ours cou'd be
So fond of, as distinctly not to see;
For whatsoe'er the Water-Mongers think
The Vertues are of this their Mine'ral Drink,
If heedfully the true Effects they'd mind
Of being at the Wells, they'd quickly find
The Ease they feel, and all the Health they share,
Is only due (while they continue there)
To Temperance, Exercise, and Country Air.
Turning my Head, and eager to be gone,
Who shou'd I see methought, but Hains alone?
And all alone poor Joseph well might be
Who, (bating those of his Fraternity,)
Cou'd not on Earth find Company to suit
A Name so Vile, and Life so Dissolute.
I date thee Fool, cry'd I, this very Hour,
Of all Mankind what need hast thou to Scow'r?
Nor Sup't last Night, nor broke thy Fast to Day
What is there in thee left to Purge away?
But why on Sunday Morning dost thou come?
The Day that all thy Brethren stay at home.
Cou'd on thy Friendly care not one Prevail
To fetch him Physick, and to warm him Ale?
The Church they leave to those it more does please,
Their Souls of less concern than their Disease.
In short, what all the Week they Whore and Swill,
They Rectify to Day with Peter's Pill.
Who shou'd I see methought, but Hains alone?
And all alone poor Joseph well might be
Who, (bating those of his Fraternity,)
256
A Name so Vile, and Life so Dissolute.
I date thee Fool, cry'd I, this very Hour,
Of all Mankind what need hast thou to Scow'r?
Nor Sup't last Night, nor broke thy Fast to Day
What is there in thee left to Purge away?
But why on Sunday Morning dost thou come?
The Day that all thy Brethren stay at home.
Cou'd on thy Friendly care not one Prevail
To fetch him Physick, and to warm him Ale?
The Church they leave to those it more does please,
Their Souls of less concern than their Disease.
In short, what all the Week they Whore and Swill,
They Rectify to Day with Peter's Pill.
Faith 'tis a just Remark, quoth Honest Joe;
A Jest has 'twice the odds for being true.
But if you will your Luggs this way incline,
I'll let You know this Morning's whole Design.
Our Converse with our selves, I freely own,
To be, perhaps, the worst the World has known;
The Themes we Relish with the truest Gust
Is Guile, Aspersion, Blasphemy and Lust:
If such a thing on Earth as Hell there be,
The Stage is Tophet—and it's Fiends are we.
First then, in Truth, I hither did Repair
To Bleach my Brimstone off in wholsome Air.
Next I'd some Gallery Tickets to dispose,
And in this Place I ne'er my Labour lose:
Here fifeeen Pence I've always down and down,
For what wou'd yield me but a Hog in Town.
And last in my Return I seldom fail
To get my Swill of Dullwych College Ale.
These little Shifts, grown useless for the Stage,
I'm forc'd to follow to sustain my Age.
Our Sharers, now so insolent are they,
We Under-Actors must like Slaves obey;
And toil and drudge, while they divide the Pay.
Not Busby more Tyrannically Rules,
Than Bet---n among his Knaves and Fools:
But most to me is his ill Nature shown,
Because my Voice is with my Palate gone:
Not that I faster than the rest decline;
Both Men and Women in my Failing joyn,
And B---y's Breath is grown as rank as mine.
A Jest has 'twice the odds for being true.
But if you will your Luggs this way incline,
I'll let You know this Morning's whole Design.
Our Converse with our selves, I freely own,
To be, perhaps, the worst the World has known;
The Themes we Relish with the truest Gust
Is Guile, Aspersion, Blasphemy and Lust:
If such a thing on Earth as Hell there be,
The Stage is Tophet—and it's Fiends are we.
First then, in Truth, I hither did Repair
To Bleach my Brimstone off in wholsome Air.
Next I'd some Gallery Tickets to dispose,
And in this Place I ne'er my Labour lose:
Here fifeeen Pence I've always down and down,
For what wou'd yield me but a Hog in Town.
And last in my Return I seldom fail
To get my Swill of Dullwych College Ale.
These little Shifts, grown useless for the Stage,
I'm forc'd to follow to sustain my Age.
257
We Under-Actors must like Slaves obey;
And toil and drudge, while they divide the Pay.
Not Busby more Tyrannically Rules,
Than Bet---n among his Knaves and Fools:
But most to me is his ill Nature shown,
Because my Voice is with my Palate gone:
Not that I faster than the rest decline;
Both Men and Women in my Failing joyn,
And B---y's Breath is grown as rank as mine.
Uneasy with my Company, I here
Wou'd have took leave, and gave a Civil Leer.
No hold, quoth Joe, my Tickets all are gone,
And if you please, Ill wait on you to Town:
Or if you'll take a Sermon by the Way,
(For at the College 'tis their Preaching Day)
I shall be much Oblig'd by such a Stay.
With all my Heart, cry'd I; I'm glad your Mind
Has took that Bent;—and keep it so inclin'd:
You'll find more Comfort in one Hour of Pray'r
Than all the Clappings of the Theatre,
Tho' you should yet enjoy 'em Twenty Year.
So on I pass'd, now first, and now behind,
Still giving him the Lee-ward of the Wind;
Avoiding so the Breathings of his Ghest,
Which he so frankly own'd were not the best.
At last, quoth Joe, you by and by shall see
The Gift of one of our Society:
Nor Greece nor Rome it's Equal ever show'd,
So Nobly is it built, so Lib'rally endow'd.
The Poet may Instruct and Please the Sense,
And worthy Schemes may be deduc'd from thence,
But 'tis a Barren Good that costs him no Expence:
Our Allen did a nobler Pattern set,
But not one Bard has imitated yet.
Wou'd have took leave, and gave a Civil Leer.
No hold, quoth Joe, my Tickets all are gone,
And if you please, Ill wait on you to Town:
Or if you'll take a Sermon by the Way,
(For at the College 'tis their Preaching Day)
I shall be much Oblig'd by such a Stay.
With all my Heart, cry'd I; I'm glad your Mind
Has took that Bent;—and keep it so inclin'd:
You'll find more Comfort in one Hour of Pray'r
Than all the Clappings of the Theatre,
Tho' you should yet enjoy 'em Twenty Year.
So on I pass'd, now first, and now behind,
Still giving him the Lee-ward of the Wind;
Avoiding so the Breathings of his Ghest,
Which he so frankly own'd were not the best.
At last, quoth Joe, you by and by shall see
The Gift of one of our Society:
Nor Greece nor Rome it's Equal ever show'd,
So Nobly is it built, so Lib'rally endow'd.
The Poet may Instruct and Please the Sense,
And worthy Schemes may be deduc'd from thence,
But 'tis a Barren Good that costs him no Expence:
Our Allen did a nobler Pattern set,
But not one Bard has imitated yet.
258
His Name, said I, we to the Clouds shou'd raise
The least it merits's Everlasting Praise:
But most unjustly on the Bards you fall:
Rich tho' he was, from them he rais'd it all.
Not to disgrace his Vertue, or his Wit,
What had he got, had Shakespear never writ?
As to our selves, had we the Players Gains,
(And more our Right it is, as more our Pains)
We had exceeded all that he has done,
And gave the World an Instance,—more than one:
Not, but 'tis Nobler yet, to form the Mind
To Vertue,—and to keep it so inclin'd,
(The Work for which we solely were design'd)
Than 'tis the Loftiest Edifice to build,
Or to Endow;—and Nobler Fruit 'twill yield.
His Charity, which justly we extol,
Does but Respect the Body;—Ours the Soul:
Twit us not then that we no Fabricks raise,
When from a better Claim we hold our Praise;
Nor think the Bard that does Exhaust his Sense,
At least that culls the richest Precepts thence,
To teach Mankind, can write without Expence:
Cou'd we our Purses wide as Allen strain,
'Tis nobler yet to spend upon the Brain.
In Contemplation rapt above the Skies,
We look on Yellow Dirt with heedless Eyes:
What truly Christian Bard would Gold adore,
When he may teach Contentment to the Poor.
And shew the World the Rich have no Excuse
That put not Money to its Genuine Use?
Like Him w'ave mention'd, who employ'd his Store
To breed up Friendless Youth and feed the Aged Poor.
But least of all you on the Muse shou'd throw
Your Scurril Jests, that keep her Sons so low:
How can our Suffering Tribe but chuse to be
The Sons of Hardship and Necessity?
When, let our Plays be acted half an Age,
W'ave but a third Days Gleaning of the Stage?
The rest is yours:—and hence your Sharers rise,
And once above us, all our Aid despise:
Hence has your Osmin drawn his Wealthy Lot,
And hence has Zara all her Thousands got:
Zara! that Proud, Opprobrious, Shameless Jilt,
Who like a Devil justifies her Guilt,
And feels no least Remorse for all the Blood sh'has spilt
But prithee Joe, since so she boasts her Blood,
And few have yet her Lineage understood,
Tell me, in short, the Harlot's true Descent,
'Twill be a Favour that you shan't repent.
The least it merits's Everlasting Praise:
But most unjustly on the Bards you fall:
Rich tho' he was, from them he rais'd it all.
Not to disgrace his Vertue, or his Wit,
What had he got, had Shakespear never writ?
As to our selves, had we the Players Gains,
(And more our Right it is, as more our Pains)
We had exceeded all that he has done,
And gave the World an Instance,—more than one:
Not, but 'tis Nobler yet, to form the Mind
To Vertue,—and to keep it so inclin'd,
(The Work for which we solely were design'd)
Than 'tis the Loftiest Edifice to build,
Or to Endow;—and Nobler Fruit 'twill yield.
His Charity, which justly we extol,
Does but Respect the Body;—Ours the Soul:
Twit us not then that we no Fabricks raise,
When from a better Claim we hold our Praise;
Nor think the Bard that does Exhaust his Sense,
At least that culls the richest Precepts thence,
To teach Mankind, can write without Expence:
Cou'd we our Purses wide as Allen strain,
'Tis nobler yet to spend upon the Brain.
In Contemplation rapt above the Skies,
We look on Yellow Dirt with heedless Eyes:
What truly Christian Bard would Gold adore,
When he may teach Contentment to the Poor.
And shew the World the Rich have no Excuse
That put not Money to its Genuine Use?
Like Him w'ave mention'd, who employ'd his Store
To breed up Friendless Youth and feed the Aged Poor.
But least of all you on the Muse shou'd throw
Your Scurril Jests, that keep her Sons so low:
How can our Suffering Tribe but chuse to be
The Sons of Hardship and Necessity?
259
W'ave but a third Days Gleaning of the Stage?
The rest is yours:—and hence your Sharers rise,
And once above us, all our Aid despise:
Hence has your Osmin drawn his Wealthy Lot,
And hence has Zara all her Thousands got:
Zara! that Proud, Opprobrious, Shameless Jilt,
Who like a Devil justifies her Guilt,
And feels no least Remorse for all the Blood sh'has spilt
But prithee Joe, since so she boasts her Blood,
And few have yet her Lineage understood,
Tell me, in short, the Harlot's true Descent,
'Twill be a Favour that you shan't repent.
Truly said Joe, as now the Matter goes,
What I shall speak must be beneath the Rose.
Her Mother was a common Strumpet known,
Her Father half the Rabble of the Town.
Begot by Casual and Promiscuous Lust,
She still retains the same Promiscuous Gust.
For Birth, into a Suburb Cellar hurl'd,
The Strumpet came up Stairs into the World.
At Twelve she'd freely in Coition join,
And far surpass'd the Honours of her Line.
As her Conception was a Complication,
So its Produce, alike, did serve the Nation;
Till by a Black, Successive Course of Ills,
She reach'd the Noble Post which now she fills;
Where, Messalina like, she treads the Stage,
And all Enjoys, but nothing can Asswage!
What I shall speak must be beneath the Rose.
Her Mother was a common Strumpet known,
Her Father half the Rabble of the Town.
Begot by Casual and Promiscuous Lust,
She still retains the same Promiscuous Gust.
For Birth, into a Suburb Cellar hurl'd,
The Strumpet came up Stairs into the World.
At Twelve she'd freely in Coition join,
And far surpass'd the Honours of her Line.
As her Conception was a Complication,
So its Produce, alike, did serve the Nation;
Till by a Black, Successive Course of Ills,
She reach'd the Noble Post which now she fills;
Where, Messalina like, she treads the Stage,
And all Enjoys, but nothing can Asswage!
Thus towards the College we went jogging on:
Arriv'd, we found the Service just begun:—
Step in quoth Joe;—I'll come to you anon:
The Cook and Butler I must visit first;
For Hunger one, and t'other for my Thirst.
Let not your Corps, said I, be yet your Care;
Your better Part shou'd first be treated here:
If lasting Ease you'd to the Body find,
Let there be nothing wanting to the Mind.
My Paunch, said he, knows not what Doctrine means;—
You take the Stage;—I'll go behind the Scenes.
Arriv'd, we found the Service just begun:—
Step in quoth Joe;—I'll come to you anon:
The Cook and Butler I must visit first;
For Hunger one, and t'other for my Thirst.
260
Your better Part shou'd first be treated here:
If lasting Ease you'd to the Body find,
Let there be nothing wanting to the Mind.
My Paunch, said he, knows not what Doctrine means;—
You take the Stage;—I'll go behind the Scenes.
Sighing I enter'd;—when a kind Surprise:
Did entertain at once my Ears and Eyes:
The Organs Solemn Musick sounding there,
The Singing Boys Responding Voices here,
The Master and the Wardens grave Deport,
The Strict Devoutness of the meaner Sort,
The Management of all did soon inspire
My Soul with Joy! when joining with the Quire,
In Pray'r and Praises I perform'd my Part;
Nor less, I hope, my Ardor at the Heart.
But now the Service and the Sermon done,
(Whilst I to render Thanks was kneeling down)
Methought they of a sudden all were gone:
Surpris'd at the Event, I gaz'd about;
Saw none within, nor saw no Passage out.
'Tis well, said I,—and blest! O blest be they,
That in this Sacred Court delight to stay!
O Time! how smoothly then thou glid'st away!
When nothing Anxious in the Soul is found,
But Faith and Practice take their Equal Round;
When ev'ry Word a Pious Rapture fires,
And makes it self a Heav'n, while it to Heav'n aspires!
Thus walking up and down, to thought Resign'd,
At last the founder came into my Mind;
Nor cou'd I my Conceptions then contain,
(Tho' something for the Sacred Place too vain,)
But broke out loud in this Extatick Strain.
Did entertain at once my Ears and Eyes:
The Organs Solemn Musick sounding there,
The Singing Boys Responding Voices here,
The Master and the Wardens grave Deport,
The Strict Devoutness of the meaner Sort,
The Management of all did soon inspire
My Soul with Joy! when joining with the Quire,
In Pray'r and Praises I perform'd my Part;
Nor less, I hope, my Ardor at the Heart.
But now the Service and the Sermon done,
(Whilst I to render Thanks was kneeling down)
Methought they of a sudden all were gone:
Surpris'd at the Event, I gaz'd about;
Saw none within, nor saw no Passage out.
'Tis well, said I,—and blest! O blest be they,
That in this Sacred Court delight to stay!
O Time! how smoothly then thou glid'st away!
When nothing Anxious in the Soul is found,
But Faith and Practice take their Equal Round;
When ev'ry Word a Pious Rapture fires,
And makes it self a Heav'n, while it to Heav'n aspires!
Thus walking up and down, to thought Resign'd,
At last the founder came into my Mind;
Nor cou'd I my Conceptions then contain,
(Tho' something for the Sacred Place too vain,)
But broke out loud in this Extatick Strain.
261
O happy! happy and Instructive Age
When Shakespear Writ, and Allen trod the Stage!
To Emulation fir'd, 'twas hard to tell
Which of the famous two did most Excel.
But O thou Darling Poet of our Isle,
And thou th'Erecter of this Sacred Pile,
How wou'd you Blush were you but now to see,
Both Plays and Players black Impiety!
And wish y'ad never rais'd the Infant Stage,
Since grown so black and Sinful in her Age:
With Vice she wou'd Instruct, with Vice Delight;
And all she does Pervert, that hear, that Act, that Write.
When Shakespear Writ, and Allen trod the Stage!
To Emulation fir'd, 'twas hard to tell
Which of the famous two did most Excel.
But O thou Darling Poet of our Isle,
And thou th'Erecter of this Sacred Pile,
How wou'd you Blush were you but now to see,
Both Plays and Players black Impiety!
And wish y'ad never rais'd the Infant Stage,
Since grown so black and Sinful in her Age:
With Vice she wou'd Instruct, with Vice Delight;
And all she does Pervert, that hear, that Act, that Write.
'Twas here, methought, an Awful Form appear'd
In a long Gown, and Venerable Beard.
And who art Thou, he cry'd, that thus dost Praise
The Bards and Actors of the former Days?
And what are now their Follies and their Crimes,
With which they so infest the Present Times?
In a long Gown, and Venerable Beard.
And who art Thou, he cry'd, that thus dost Praise
The Bards and Actors of the former Days?
And what are now their Follies and their Crimes,
With which they so infest the Present Times?
I am, said I, Apollo's meanest Son,
Who yet the Vices of his Greatest shun;
One, that with other Bards this Good design,
Plays to reform and make the Stage Divine:
No Vitious Plots we'd on the Age obtrude,
On Morals built, they shou'd be so pursu'd:
To Truth and Sense the Audience we'd Conduct,
And first we'd Please, that we might next Instruct;
That Centre where the Drama still shou'd tend,
As first 'twas purpos'd for no other End.
But w'are oppos'd by such an impious Train
Of Players, as make all our Studies vain;
Nothing they'll Act, and nothing they esteem
That does not Vertue shame, and God Blaspheme.
Instead of such as did this Fabrick build,
The Stage does now a Set of Monsters yield;
So openly Debauch'd, So flaming Ill,
As scarce, perhaps, are to be match'd in Hell!
Nor does this Censure only touch the Young,
But does alike to those of Years belong;
Who, rich as Jews, no other Pious Use
Make of their Wealth, but Vertue to Seduce:
Not Allen more did on this Pile bestow
Than they on Strumpets, or to make 'em so;
Witness Mill-Bank, where Osmin keeps his Trulls
With what, by sharing, he exacts from Fools.
Who yet the Vices of his Greatest shun;
One, that with other Bards this Good design,
Plays to reform and make the Stage Divine:
No Vitious Plots we'd on the Age obtrude,
On Morals built, they shou'd be so pursu'd:
To Truth and Sense the Audience we'd Conduct,
And first we'd Please, that we might next Instruct;
That Centre where the Drama still shou'd tend,
As first 'twas purpos'd for no other End.
But w'are oppos'd by such an impious Train
Of Players, as make all our Studies vain;
Nothing they'll Act, and nothing they esteem
That does not Vertue shame, and God Blaspheme.
262
The Stage does now a Set of Monsters yield;
So openly Debauch'd, So flaming Ill,
As scarce, perhaps, are to be match'd in Hell!
Nor does this Censure only touch the Young,
But does alike to those of Years belong;
Who, rich as Jews, no other Pious Use
Make of their Wealth, but Vertue to Seduce:
Not Allen more did on this Pile bestow
Than they on Strumpets, or to make 'em so;
Witness Mill-Bank, where Osmin keeps his Trulls
With what, by sharing, he exacts from Fools.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |