The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Friendship with most is dead and cool,
A dull, inactive, stagnant pool;
Yours like the lively current flows,
And shares the pleasure it bestows.
If there is ought, whose lenient pow'r
Can sooth affliction's painful hour,
Sweeten the bitter cup of care,
And snatch the wretched from despair,
Superior to the sense of woes,
From friendship's source the balsam flows.
Rich then am I, possest of thine,
Who know that happy balsam mine.

In youth, from nature's genuine heat,
The souls congenial spring to meet,

110

And emulation's infant strife,
Cements the man in future life.
Oft too the mind well-pleas'd surveys
Its progress from its childish days;
Sees how the current upwards ran,
And reads the child o'er in the man.
For men, in reason's sober eyes,
Are children, but of larger size,
Have still their idle hopes and fears,
And Hobby-Horse of riper years.

Whether a blessing, or a curse,
My rattle is the love of verse.
Some fancied parts, and emulation,
Which still aspires to reputation,
Bad infant fancy plume her flight,
And held the laurel full to sight.
For vanity, the poet's sin,
Had ta'en possession all within:
And he whose brain is verse-possest,
Is in himself as highly blest,
As he, whose lines and circles vie
With heav'n's direction of the sky.

Howe'er the river rolls its tides,
The cork upon the surface rides.

111

And on Ink's Ocean, lightly buoy'd,
That cork of vanity is Lloyd.
Let me too use the common claim
And souse at once upon my name,
Which some have done with greater stress,
Who know me, and who love me less.

Poets are very harmless things,
Unless you teaze one till he stings;
And when asfronts are plainly meant,
We're bound in honour to resent:
And what tribunal will deny
An injur'd person to reply?

In these familiar emanations,
Which are but writing conversations,
Where thought appears in dishabille,
And fancy does just what she will,
The sourest critic wou'd excuse
The vagrant sallies of the Muse:
Which lady, for Apollo's blessing,
Has still attended our caressing,
As many children round her sees
As maggots in a Cheshire cheese,
Which I maintain at vast expence,
Of pen and paper, time and sense:

112

And surely 'twas no small miscarriage
When first I enter'd into marriage.
The poet's title which I bear,
With some strange castles in the air,
Was all my portion with the fair.

However narrowly I look,
In Phœbus's valorem book,
I cannot from enquiry find
Poets had much to leave behind.
They had a copyhold estate
In lands which they themselves create,
A foolish title to a fountain,
A right of common in a mountain,
And yet they liv'd amongst the great,
More than their brethren do of late;
Invited out at feasts to dine,
Eat as they pleas'd, and drank their wine;
Nor is it any where set down
They tipt the servants half a crown,
But pass'd amid the waiting throng
And pay'd the porter with a song;
As once, a wag, in modern days,
When all are in these bribing ways,
His shillings to dispense unable,
Scrap'd half the fruit from off the table,

113

And walking gravely thro' the croud,
Which stood obsequiously, and bow'd,
To keep the fashion up of tipping,
Dropt in each hand a golden pippin.

But there's a difference indeed
'Twixt ancient bards and modern breed.
Tho' poet known, in Roman days,
Fearless he walk'd the public ways,
Nor ever knew that sacred name
Contemptuous smile, or painful shame:
While with a foolish face of praise,
The solks wou'd stop to gape and gaze,
And half untold the story leave,
Pulling their neighbour by the sleeve,
While th' index of the finger shews,
—There—yonder's Horace—there he goes.

This finger, I allow it true,
Points at us modern poets too;
But 'tis by way of wit and joke,
To laugh, or as the phrase is, smoke.

Yet there are those, who're fond of wit,
Altho' they never us'd it yet,

114

Who wits and witlings entertain;
Of Taste, Virtù, and Judgment vain,
And dinner, grace, and grace-cup done,
Expect a wond'rous deal of fun:
“Yes—He at bottom—don't you know him
“That's He that wrote the last new poem.
“His Humour's exquisitely high,
“You'll hear him open by and by.”

The man in print and conversation
Have often very small relation;
And he, whose humour hits the town,
When copied fairly, and set down,
In public company may pass,
For little better than an ass.
Perhaps the fault is on his side,
Springs it from modesty, or pride,
Those qualities asham'd to own,
For which he's happy to be known;
Or that his nature's strange and shy,
And diffident, he knows not why;
Or from a prudent kind of fear,
As knowing that the world's severe,
He wou'd not suffer to escape
Familiar wit in easy shape:

115

Lest gaping fools, and vile repeaters,
Should catch her up, and spoil her features,
And, for the child's unlucky maim,
The faultless parent come to shame.

Well, but methinks I hear you say,
“Write then, my friend!”—Write what?—“a Play.
“The theatres are open yet,
“The market for all sterling wit;
“Try the strong efforts of your pen,
“And draw the characters of men;
“Or bid the bursting tear to flow,
“Obedient to the fabled woe:
“With Tragedy's severest art,
“Anatomize the human heart,
“And, that you may be understood,
“Bid nature speak, as nature shou'd.”

That talent, George, tho' yet untried,
Perhaps my genius has denied;
While you, my friend, are sure to please
With all the pow'rs of comic ease.

Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of wishes, full of fears.

116

One might by pleasant thoughts be led,
To lose a trifling maiden-head;
But 'tis a terrible vexation
To give up with it reputation.
And he, who has with Plays to do,
Has got the devil to go through.
Critics have reason for their rules,
I dread the censure of your fools.
For tell me, and consult your pride,
(Set Garrick for a while aside)
How cou'd you, George, with patience bear,
The critic prosing in the play'r?

Some of that calling have I known,
Who hold no judgment like their own;
And yet their reasons fairly scan,
And separate the wheat and bran;
You'd be amaz'd indeed to find,
What little wheat is left behind.
For, after all their mighty rout,
Of chatt'ring round and round about;
'Tis but a kind of clock-work talking,
Like crossing on the stage, and walking.

The form of this tribunal past,
The play receiv'd, the parts all cast,

117

Each actor has his own objections,
Each character, new imperfections:
The man's is drawn too course and rough,
The lady's has not smut enough.
It want's a touch of Cibber's ease,
A higher kind of talk to please;
Such as your titled folks would chuse,
And Lords and Ladyships might use,
Which stile, whoever would succeed in,
Must have small wit, and much good breeding.
If this is dialogue—ma foi,
Sweet Sir, say I, pardonnez moi!

As long as life and business last,
The actors have their several cast,
A walk where each his talents shews,
Queens, Nurses, Tyrants, Lovers, Beaux;
Suppose you've found a girl of merit,
Who'd shew your part in all its spirit,
Take the whole meaning in the scope,
Some little lively thing, like Pope,
You rob some others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.

But grant the cast is as you like,
To actors which you think will strike.

118

To-morrow then—(but as you know
I've ne'er a Comedy to shew,
Let me a while in conversation,
Make free with yours for application)
The arrow's flight can't be prevented—
To-morrow then, will be presented
The Jealous Wife! To-morrow? Right.
How do you sleep, my friend, to-night?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roast-beef, and catcalls in your ears?
Mabb's wheels a-cross your temples creep,
You toss and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and spleen,
“That fellow murders all my scene.”

To-morrow comes. I know your merit,
And see the piece's fire and spirit;
Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty,
And dreads the efforts of a party.

The coach below, the clock gone five,
Now to the theatre we drive:
Peeping the curtain's eyelet through,
Behold the house in dreadful view!
Observe how close the critics sit,
And not one bonnet in the pit.

119

With horror hear the galleries ring,
Nosy! Black Joke! God save the King!
Sticks clatter, catcalls scream, Encore!
Cocks crow, pit hisses, galleries roar:
E'en cha' some oranges is found
This night to have a dreadful sound:
'Till, decent sables on his back,
(Your prologuizers all wear black)
The prologue comes; and, if its mine,
Its very good, and very fine.
If not, I take a pinch of snuff,
And wonder where you got such stuff.

That done, a-gape the critics sit,
Expectant of the comic wit.
The fiddlers play again pell-mell,
—But hist!—the prompter rings his bell.
—Down there! hats off!—the curtain draws!
What follows is—the just applause.