The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Art of Acting, Sir, by Aaron Hill,
Shows that the Man has a poetic Quill,—
A lively Turn of Thought, that could afford
Of Rimes and Epithets a plenteous Hoard;
That could the Subject, which he had in View,
Thro' ev'ry Maze of winding Wit pursue.

II

Nevertheless,—with Freedom may I speak?
Yes, to be sure, to R---n or F---ke!—

261

I would have chosen, had I been to choose,
Another Subject for Friend Aaron's Muse;
And left to manage for itself the Stage,
The Nonsense, Folly, Madness of the Age.

III

Tho' one may praise the Verse, one grieves to feel
A Bard's Invention rack'd upon the Wheel
To show the muscular Effect of Thought
In Looks and Features, Nerves and Sinews, wrought,—
For what? To teach his Buskin-footed Fools
How to belie their Want of Sense by Rules!

IV

The Soul, it seems, what passes by observes
From some snug Place behind the Optic Nerves;
If pleas'd with Objects, she dilates the Brow;
If not, contracts, to frown them out, somehow;
And then the Muscles of the Face and Neck,
Contiguous, take their Bias from her Beck.

V

Thus, in progressive Impulse, thro' the Whole,
Each Part obeys the Meaning of the Soul;

262

Thought shapes the Look, Look Muscles, Muscles Mien;
One Chain of Action runs each Step between;
While Voice and Movement, Gesture, and the like,
All in one Concert are oblig'd to strike.

VI

This is the System, if I take it true,—
The Art which, as he says, is Nature too.
Grant it,—'tis what his Muse in tuneful Lays,
Tho' now and then a little harsh, displays;
Yet all this while, this Art of Looks and Limbs
Is ill-bestow'd upon Theatric Whims.

VII

Actors and Actresses, I say again,
Are not the Pupils worthy of his Pen.
That Muse, which histrionic Wits applaud,
The Wise will think no better than a Bawd.
What “Heliconian Nymph” but would disdain
To dangle after those of Drury-Lane?

VIII

But, “Hold!” says mine.—“Why, what's the matter, Dame?”—
“Matter? Why, do you think you can reclaim

263

This agèd Bard, so eager as to call
The Censure upon Players Cant's low Crawl?”—
“No, Madam; I can hardly hope for that.”—
“No? Then, what is it that you would be at?”—

IX

“Only, to tell a certain Friend of mine
That put it in my Head, what I opine.”—
“A certain Friend? What! He, who in plain Prose
Without our Help has ventur'd to expose
Vice in its odious colours, and to paint
In his Clarissa's Life and Death a Saint?”—

X

“Yes.”—“Why, then, hush! and spare the Playhouse Bard!
We must maintain our Poor, and Times are hard.
The Tragic Jades cry: ‘What becomes of us,
If prosing Fiction may distribute thus
All that is worth the Notice in a Play?’”—
“Well, my dear Muse,—I have no more to say.”