Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]. Second Edition

Pasquin, Anthony (1761-1818)

[epigraph]

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

1. FIRST PART.

[_]

[FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1786.]

vii

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY, AND FELLOW OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY.

Tho' legends inform us that walls have oft spoke,
This vile faithless age treat the tale as a joke:
But in that they are wrong, as hereafter you'll see:
For e'en houses converse, when their minds disagree.
To evince what I say, I will give a relation
Of a speech, by the way, of a kind exhortation.
The Nymph of the Garden, with feeling and pain,
Thus warn'd the grey strumpet of old Drury-Lane.

To give good advice, is not always well taken,
Tho' it tends in its spirit, to save a friend's bacon:
Half aw'd by a maxim, so wise and so weighty,
I thrice had resolv'd to forego this intreaty;
But Nature impels me, I cannot resist her,
To snatch from perdition a weak minded sister;
Whose honor is sullied by counsellors scurvy,
Who've turn'd her poor cranium almost topsy-turvy.

Like the cloak of Saint Martin, they've cut her in pieces,
For self-preservation's their favourite thesis:
No evils more serious have sicklied her uses,
Since pliable Fleetwood smil'd Lord of the Muses:
By the fatal effects of mal-administration,
In the last fell campaign they half undid their nation;

Then Folly and Madness rose up to confound 'em,
And the props of their happiness fell all around 'em;
A woe-begone queen call'd for gin to support her,
And chiefs mourn'd the fall of the state—over porter;
And Linley the pensive, Calliope's hero,
Oft fiddled on ruins, like Rome's bloody Nero.

Poor Drury, 'tis piteous that Reason e'er left her,
See Ford damns the forceps, to catch a mock sceptre:

In vain lovely Dian implores from the skies,
Become not, my varlet, the tyrant of flies;
I know the vile Helicon hussies have stung ye,
But I'll send the demon of discord among ye;
To people the world is a more honor'd part.
Then forsake not, my son, the obstetric art;
Get your brains wash'd by Hawkins, and stop up its crannies,
And give to mankind Lady Gigs and Lord Fannies.
But deaf to her plaints, the egregious king
Quits the medical paths to become—a great thing;
Ambition has grappled the hooks of his soul,
And bent all his talents, to own her controul.
Like Ammon's fam'd son he exerts his high sway,
For with ease he creates forty kings in a day;
The posts of vast import bestows on his cousins,
And heroes and lordlings, can make them by dozens;
Thus regally rob'd, becomes haughty and vain,
And frowns on the Divan in Old Warwick-lane.
Not Augustus himself, tho' his chief and his master,
Could elevate ideots more gladly or faster.

Like Charles the imperial, enfeebled and hoary,
Great Garrick retir'd, o'er laden with glory:
He had run round the circle of Honour's career,
And knew ev'ry blessing which feeling makes dear;
But his vanity sated, his wishes were o'er,
For his hope grew diseas'd, and his joys were no more.
Like the young Macedonian, he wept when he knew,
That no graces of art were now left to subdue;
And that spirit which long was subservient to Fame,
Retreated within, and corroded his frame;
Where with Nature's base particles entering in strife,
It subjected his wisdom, and fed on his life.

Your faculties weaken'd, you think it a crime
To shew in your person the inroads of Time;
But, like a French dowager, vanity-tainted,
Your wrinkles are hid, and your cheeks are be-painted;
And tho' labouring Art throws a veil over Truth,
You still want in mein all the graces of youth;
Yet, alas! on that point we could never agree;
You should leave all those airs—to young beauties like me.

But to give my intent and my action a joint,
We will drop idle tattling, and come to the point.

As you know I abhor both the lies and detractors,
I'll give you my thoughts on your Authors and Actors;
With a critical rod I'll enforce each vain youth,
Unsandall'd, to walk o'er the ploughshares of Truth:
If his worth is innate, and his merits are real,
Unwounded he'll pass thro' the flaming ordeal.
—A dramatic author can now bid defiance
To learning, to genius, to taste, and to science;
Helter-skelter, ding-dong, thro' thick and thro' thin,
They heed not the means, so the prize they can win.
'Twas reserv'd as a type of this frenzy-fraught age,
That such Grub-street endeavours should rise on the stage:
But patrons of Merit, alas! are no more,
And the choir of Parnassus the tidings deplore.
Apollo now ceases the song to inspire,
And tuneless, and silent, reposes his lyre:
As Sorrow the pearls from their eye-lids distil,
The sweet nymphs of Helicon mourn round their hill.

Amid the half taught, illegitimate race,
Charles Dibdin comes forward with bronze-burnish'd face;
Unletter'd, ill-manner'd, presuming and loud,
To push his bold front in the rhyme-weaving croud;
His career has been mark'd like a mere April day,
Where storms, rain, and sunshine, by turns hold the sway:
Now he groans with despair at the scourges of Heav'n;
Now he laughs o'er the wages his follies have giv'n;
Blaspheming this month, amid filth in a garret;
In the next, gorging high, on his carp, cod, and claret,
Like the bird of the east, by his weakness misled,
He'll with pride shew his breech—so the fool hides his head.
The thing mounts to alt' in his passionate fires,
His brains are piano, and bass his desires.

With abortions of Reason he once strove to scrawl,
And baptis'd the vile spectacle—Liberty-Hall.
—May shame brand the man who such nonsense protected,
When Genius implor'd him, and Wit lay neglected:
But fidler with fidler will huddle together,
Like bugs in a blanket, that sleep in cold weather.

It is true, I have authors enough of my own,
Who hang round my skirts like base slaves round a throne:
To my Coz Common Sense, I once ventur'd to shew 'em,
And tho' strange to declare—yet the Nymph did not know 'em.
But what can I do? if I fasten my doors,
They steal to the hatch, and creep in—on all-fours.
They know my weak side to be mark'd with urbanity,
'Tis there they assail me, and tax my humanity.
Friend Dives protects this, for he's shirtless and poor;
And my Lord pleads for that, or, what's worse—my Lord's whore.
Alas! must they perish, tho' dunces and liars,
Who beg an existence like mendicant friars?

I remember poor Merit, that ill-fated youth
Was the offspring of Wisdom, and nurtur'd by Truth;

As patient he sail'd down life's varying stream,
He felt not the warmth of the Sun's genial beam:
Like a flow'ret on Nature's great desart he lay,
Which the weeds that surrounded had hid from his ray;
Its fragrance unknown, none the loss will deplore,
For he droop'd in the vale, and was thought of no more;

Chill Penury's hand drew the child from the womb,
Attended his being, and wept o'er his tomb.
Full oft he attempted to call upon Fame,
But the children of Vice had extinguish'd his claim:
Indignant they drove the meek youth from the throng,
Suppress'd his ambition, and fetter'd his song.—

For rancorous Authorlings sink to Reviewers,
As channels neglected become common sewers:
Hence Folly to high estimation is rais'd,
Hence Sternes were bespatter'd, and Burneys be-prais'd:
They lacerate Wit from their cowardly stations,
And grub for a weed, in—a bed of carnations.
Like the envious pangs of an impotent man,
They can't sin themselves, and they hate all that can;
But deal out their wreaths to the suppliant things,
As honors are shower'd by puppet-shew kings;
And the errors of Dulness, from sympathy smother,
As one vile attorney will plead for another.

Yet his page will be hallow'd on future inspection,
Who laugh'd at their edicts, and scorn'd their protection;
For Time shall their basis of arrogance sever,
And Burneys will perish, and Sternes live for ever!

But enough, my dear sister, we've sung of that sect;
The Bad you encourage, the Good you neglect;
Your despots with evil have crowded their hour,
And fetter'd their slaves, but to manifest power;
They protect but the Grubs of their own vile creation,
And darken at will the bright mind's emanation;
For Folly woo'd Taste, the lewd minx, till he won her,
And Ribaldry treads on the ashes of Honor.
—Let us turn to a better starr'd body of men,
Who've no cause to envy the sons of the pen,
The Actors—who feel not the pangs of starvation,
Nor e'er dread the curse of an earthly damnation.

Mr. KING.

With King, your prime minister, lord and fuc-totum
The theme I'll begin, and his merits thus note 'em:
'Tis long since this veteran led the gay train
Of laugh-loving mortals of poor Drury-Lane:

Tho' 'tis plain in his acting to trace the old school,
He wars not with Nature, but makes her his rule.
And so aptly his sallies accord with his sense,
We can laugh, yet without giving Judgment offence;
He's Comedy's Monarch, well skill'd in the art,
To fasten our senses, and seize on the heart.
The chaste wit of Shakespeare, his point, and his whim,
Suit the talents of no individual—but him.
In Touchstone he's perfect, Malvolio great,
To thought he gives strength, and to sentiment weight;
But his characters fade as his spirits decay,
And his Brass is at best—an attempt to be gay.
Each year of his life seems to poison his hour,
Enervate his vigour, and narrow his power.
To Comedy dear—yet incompetent grown,
He struggles with Fate, still to sit on her throne.
And painful supports the wide scope of her plan;
Yet is but the mere ghost, as we've long lost—the man.

For envious of worth see! to sever the thread,
Foul Atropos plays round his reverend head.
And 'tis plain both his mind and his faculties moulder,
When the task of each day proves the man—a day older.

Pale Care that round Greatness is ever found lurking,
Has fairly worn out the inside of his jerkin:
Like Rome's classic ruins, which nod on her plains,
We trace ancient grandeur in that which remains;
And pine at the tott'ring of aught that's sublime,
And mark, with a sigh, all the traces of Time!

Mrs. SIDDONS.

The next on the list is the Siddons—great name!
Of Britain at once—the delight and the shame!
She lay like a gem on the bed of old Ocean,
'Till Chance and Caprice call'd her soul into motion.

When Virtue exalted groans under oppression;
The turn of her eye gives a strength to expression;
Or poor Isabella, worn out with her woes,
And Misery goaded, looks up for repose
To her Biron's enraged, and unnatural sire,
We all feel her pangs, and acknowledge her fire;

The tale of her sorrows is ably imprest,
And the heroine's wrongs fill the void of each breast:
All the force of Illusion attends on her will,
And the tears that gush forth—prove the test of her skill.
Our pulses flow faint, as the ear drinks her sigh,
And Horror and Savageness glare in her eye.

Her greatness is such that all classes adore it,
Like Africa's whirlwinds, it sweeps all before it:
Nor Cibber, nor Pritchard, nor Crawford, nor Yates,
Or the tribes of which theatric history prates,
Could step with a chance of success in her place,
Or put on the buskin with half so much grace;
She touches the boundaries of all we desire;
Her silence has sense, and her action has fire;

With a sacred lust she assays to be glorious,
And the fiat of Fame proves the effort victorious;
Like the heroes of Homer, her faculties shine,
Of whom half was human, the other divine.

Tho' I paint thus impassion'd her elegant picture,
The model has failings which merit a stricture!
She wants the fine taste of the great Algarotti,
To soften the wildness of fam'd Bonarotti;
Like th' eminent Michael, she scorns to be bland,
Her dashes are strokes; tho' unnatural, grand!

She pants that the Genius of Glory may find her,
But oft, in her haste, leaves—poor Reason behind her.

Thalia, too sportive to dwell in a tomb,
Long since fled her fancy, appall'd by its gloom;
As sable Melpomene watch'd at her birth,
And moulded her features repulsive to Mirth;
The dimples of Pleasure must Siddons resign;
Who's wedded cold Horror, and bow'd at her shrine:
For tho', with vast labour, she forces a smile,
'Tis a sickly exotic, unknown to the soil.

Yet, wond'rous! there are, whose egregious zeal,
Pervert what they see, and defeat what they feel;
They tell us her Lovemore's the type of perfection,
Unsham'd by the clamour of public detection.
—'Tis the lie of the day, a mere falshood diurnal,
Which Fame will, indignant, erase from her journal!
Like a Will-o'-th'-Wisp, they go forth to betray,
And lead simple Nature far out of the way;
'Till fatigu'd and bemir'd, she struggles for light,
And Truth clears the mist which had clouded her sight.

But hapless is he, who, to Folly a minion,
Will yield up his senses to take her opinion:
'Tis fretting the mind her caprice to obey,
When the merit of yesterday's doubted to-day;
For those men whom our sires have lauded, with pride
Their sons have assail'd, and defil'd, and decry'd:
And the mind's poor infirmities dash'd from their throne,
Forgetting the weakness that lives in their own.

—E'en Hayley weaves verse in Antipathy's loom,
To murder the guardians of Warburton's Tomb!
He wounds, unabash'd, the repose of the dead,
And the laurel, once sacred, demands from the head;
As Prejudice, like a vile gypsy sits jaded,
Untwisting that texture which Honor had braided.

But Folly's wild impulse has delug'd the nation,
And o'er-run the land, like a foul inundation;
In her vanity firm the nymph blunders along,
Tho' prov'd to be nine times in ten in the wrong;
And who but laments such a Minx has the power
To consecrate Fashion, tho' but for an hour.

Her Rosalind was—(but, alas! who'd suppose,
That Judgment and Siddons were ever such foes?)
A tragical, comical, farcical creature,
The offspring of Pride, and the alien of Nature!
Such hoarse awful accents were never design'd
To lighten those cares which obtrude on the mind:
As Fate a creator like Shakespeare would send us,
From such a vile martyrdom, Heaven defend us!
She oft fills in thought a vast compass of action,
When her fame's but expanded by false rarefaction.
If Flattery lies in some gross attestation,
Bid her shut up her ears from the foul adulation,
As she suffers the witch (to Deformity blind)
To abridge by vile spells her great powers of mind:

Like a sorceress dire her charms she dispenses,
Encircles her progress, and birdlimes her senses.
Base nymph, tho' she courts with a passion rapacious,
Her praise is disease, and her smiles are fallacious.

It is piteous that Avarice e'er should deform
A mind to the sorrows of fiction so warm:
It sullies the face of her high reputation,
As frost nips the buddings of young vegetation;
Her genius it sicklies, her faculties seizes,
It warps the affections, and amity freezes.
Like the winds at New Zembla, its icy-fraught dart,
Shuts up every passage that leads to the heart.
It wars with the passions which rage in her breast,
And, like the Greek tyrant, subdues all the rest!

Mr. PALMER.

Of Palmer the elder, I'll give my opinion,
No man on the stage holds so wide a dominion;
Come Tragedy, Comedy, Farce, or what will,
He still gives a manifest proof of his skill;

From the Bastard of Shakespeare, and Face of old Ben,
To the dry namby-pamby of—Cumberland's pen.
He's the Muse's great hackney, on which both together
Oft pace thro' the Commons, in damn'd dirty weather.
Yet he still claims applause, tho' like Proteus he changes;
For, equal to all, thro' the drama he ranges;
And bears with much ease its vast weight on his shoulders,
'Till, like Atlas, his powers surprize all beholders.

So graceful his step, so majestic his nod,
He looks the descendant from Belvedere's god!
Yet he has his faults; and, who is there without 'em?
But his pride should take fire and instantly rout 'em;
Nor heed, tho' the effort should cost him some pain,
But puff them away like the chaff from the grain.

In stern Dionysius his acting offends,
For Nature and Palmer in that are not friends:
Like the Rhodian Colossus he stalks round the stage,
Or arm'd gladiator intent to engage;
For his zeal damns his aims in this tragic employment,
As rakes from excess lose the edge of enjoyment:
He out-herods Herod—and tears his poor throat,
'Till Harmony trembles at every note.
Tho' twelve-penny gods may with this be delighted,
Common Sense is alarm'd, and meek Reason affrighted!
—He shines in his Joseph, but more in his Lyar;
In that human Nature can never go higher.
One would think, could a thought so deform'd be supported,
That the man from his cradle with Candour had sported.

Tho' fond of the sex, yet he's fonder of porter;
And Fame, tho' a woman, ne'er labour'd to court her,
But careless to please her, right onward he bustles,
And charms the frail nymph with Herculean muscles;
Who seizes the clarion, subdu'd by her wonder,
As the tones from its womb rend the ceiling asunder;
And frights the wild air with the sonorous clatter,
'Till Reason peeps forward—to ask what's the matter?

Ere Love's gentle passion he'll deign to disclose,
His handkerchief ten times must visit his nose.—
The proud sons of Gallia aver to our faces,
The actors of Britain are foes to the Graces:
Be Palmer the champion to mend the defection,
And boldly assert his high claim to perfection;
Permit them no longer to taunt and rebuke us,
And his handkerchief use—but to wipe off the mucus.

Miss FARREN.

See Farren approach, whom the Fates have design'd,
To fascinate hearts, and illumine mankind;
With myrtle-bound brows the gay nymph is advancing,
And rapt with her smiles the blithe kidlings are dancing;
As the Sylvans pour forth, in their May vestments dress'd,
Their flocks rove at will, and their cots are unbless'd;

Fond Zephyrs exhale, from the incense-fraught flowers,
The sweets of creation, to breathe on her hours!
Her port is seduction, her voice exiles pain,
And the mild social Virtues croud into her train;
They revel and sport 'neath her eyes benign beam,
Correct her warm fancy, and sweeten her dream;
Despair leaves his cave, by her beauties imprest;
And Joy wounds the fiend that had sicken'd his breast:
Young poets for her have relinquish'd the bays,
And Eloquence pants with recording her praise:
See Pride kiss her sandals, and Apathy sighs,
And Honor implores, and Inconstancy dies.

To copy her frame, where divinity's seal is,
Would beggar the talents of fam'd Praxiteles.
See Psyche amaz'd as she turns to behold
Such excellence cast in so perfect a mould;
She trembles in thought, lest the force of such charms,
The wanton young godling should tear from her arms.

Her form is celestial, she looks, Friend, between us,
A fourth lovely Grace, or the sister of Venus.
The mistress of Spring, or the handmaid of Flora,
To chear human-kind, like the rays of Aurora.

A simper bewitching irradiates each feature,
And the men all exclaim—What an angelic creature!

Such ease, such politeness, such wit unaffected,
A love-beaming eye, and that eye—well directed.

Bless'd orbs, where such infantine myriads are seen,
Disportively wanton in Love's magazine;
New pointing their arrows with sedulous pains,
To triumph o'er Reason, and lead her in chains.
Amid Beauty's children superior she shone,
And Cupid's artillery plays round her zone.
As the bee quits the groves of Arabia to sip,
The honey of Hybla which moistens her lip:
And Fame shews her Helen in dingy tradition,
And Hebe retreats to avoid competition.
Impell'd by Ambition, this nymph seiz'd the throne,
The birthright of Venus, but long since her own;
And her wiles she dispenses from that envied station,
For the gods have confirm'd the divine usurpation.

As an Actress, her powers to please are restricted,
Tho' Folly's gay offspring she's aptly depicted,
For she simpers with glee where the dialogue centers,
And smiles when she leaves us, and smiles when she enters;
A strong wish to amuse her best judgment beguiling,
Like a clown at a shew, she's continually smiling;
Tho' her fine set of teeth partial courtesy brings,
From ridiculous Earls, and illustrious Things;
As she nods from the stage to her Stanleys and Foxes,
To let the house see she is known in the boxes.
In Teazle, the springs of mild elegance move her,
But the sightless sweet Emmeline, that's her chef d'œuvre.

Mr. SMITH.

In Townley, Charles Surface, and parts such as those,
Where merit exists in deportment and clothes,
The well-bred Comedian gets thro' with great ease,
And sometimes delights us, but always must please.
He proves the full force of Queen Bess's narration,
For his face is a letter of recommendation.
With pleasure, with transport, the audience descry,
The traits of benevolence beam in his eye;

But that's to a Briton superior to art,
'Tis a comment which tacitly honors the heart.
In the high paths of elegance who dare aspire,
To walk as his compeer, or copy his fire!
For Comedy pleasantly singled him out
As Her Gentleman-Usher, when giving a route;
To regulate manners, pretensions, and places,
To model the awkward, and teach them new graces.

But Tragedy—that is a step 'yond his skill,
He may play it from duty, but should not from will.
No varying sounds from his eloquence flow,
To mark the gradations of gladness or woe;
But a tedious monotony hangs on the ear,
Discordant, if loud; and, unmeaning, if clear;
Tho' Nature his person has form'd with great pride,
The Grief-waking requisites all are denied:
Let him stick to his mistress, and eager enjoy her,
He may do a vast deal ere his efforts can cloy her.

Mrs. WRIGHTEN.

Our woes to diminish, and moments to brighten,
The Fates in good humour have sent us—a Wrighten:
She knows the arcanum to marshal her wiles,
Seduce us with simp'ring, and win us with smiles;
The Nymphs croud around, as the Fauns beat their tabors,
And dance 'fore the chantress, and join in her labours;
Sweet Harmony mellows the notes with her shell,
And Echo redoubles each lay from her cell;
All ages and sexes unite to adore her;
Who sickens pale Envy as Care flies before her.
She adds ev'ry grace to the force of a jest,
Gives sense to her sound, and to wit a new zest:
Thro' Melody's mazes we easy can trace
The intent of her song—by the lines of her face:
Her arch comic spirit calls forth approbation,
Till the theatre shakes with the loud acclamation!

No wonder that wit she can forcibly feel,
Who's liv'd with Thalia long since en famille;
Pray Fate that she long may be sportive on earth,
The prop of burlettas, and, mistress of mirth;
Of female comedians an excellent sample;
Of Abigail singers the first great example!

But, bid her beware of too great an indulgence
Of tricks, that but mar her dramatic refulgence;
Or, if prais'd by the million, grow sick of the cause
That led her to fame, and matur'd their applause;
Lest she find, like some brides who such errors must weep,
She can conquer a heart—that she wants sense to keep,
Those airs which to practise in Lucy she's just in,
If seen in all parts, will make all parts disgusting:
Bid her temper that strong constitutional pertness,
And call upon Reason to bound her alertness.

Mr. JOHN KEMBLE.

In Kemble, behold all the shadows of learning,
An eye that's expressive, a mind half discerning;
Tho' the sense of the scene in its quickness must center,
Yet a pause must ensue, ere the hero will enter:

Well skill'd in the family secrets of mumming,
'Tis a trick that implies a great actor is coming:
But the time that's prescrib'd for the art being out,
Then on rushes John in an outrageous rout,
With a nice painted face, and a complacent grin,
Like an excellent sign to an ill-manag'd inn;
With the lineal brow, heavy, dismal, and murky,
And shoulders compress'd, like an over-truss'd turkey.

Yet he has his merits, tho' crude and confin'd,
The faint sickly rays of—a half-letter'd mind.

Now excellence fascinates every sense,
Now failings appear which give judgment offence;
In this all the force of the Actor is seen,
In that glares the Pedant, and damns all the scene;
For the faults which from Nature he got in great store,
His pride and presumption have made ten times more.

From the deep springs of Science this Marsyas has sipt,
At a period of life when he could not be whipt;
For the immature, silly, adoption of errors,
As Modesty fled, and the rod had no terrors.

Those parts of short length should be ever his choice,
That his action may never out-distance his voice,
Which loses its tones at the end of a play,
Where rant and exertion by force hold the sway:
He has something too much the mechanical stare,
And saws, without mercy, the ambient air;
And martyrs the drama, and treads on its laws,
By seeming affectedly long in each pause.
When Kemble and Siddons are raving together,
They both meet the sight, like snow-flakes in hard weather,
And lay claim to our praise in the very same tones,
The same ahs, the same ohs, the same starts, the same groans!
It is brother, and sister, and sister, and brother,
As each keeps the shuttle-cock up for each other;
Tho' the family policy glares thro' such art,
It destroys the intent, it assails not the heart.

Stung deep in the mind by the Dæmon of scribbling,
Poor John, like young mice in a cheese, will be nibbling;
And, mounted on stilts, as a true son of Phœbus,
Gives his name to the world—in a rhyme or a rebus:
With tragedies tortur'd the public has cramm'd,
Which read, were but laugh'd at; and, acted, were damn'd.
Like the vile amphisbæna, his verses assail,
For none can discover their head from their tail.

When once in a moon sombrous John condescends,
For an easy earn'd stipend to glad all his friends;
And bustling Sir Giles laughs and flounders by fits,
Like a bedlamite bard, who has outliv'd his wits;
Then the day that succeeds must produce his defence,
And Kemble and Massinger teize Common Sense.

Oh! thrice happy age, when each dramatic elf
Can modestly weave such critiques—on himself;
And tell with kind industry all but what's true,
And sing of conceptions—his mind never knew!

Time was, when the great Public Mind was the cause,
From whence issued aught that gave fame or applause;
But that Public long since have resign'd their opinion,
And insolent Folly assum'd the dominion.
Now Candour lies mould'ring 'mid bibles on shelves,
For Actors, like Indians, make idols themselves:
They forge the base lie, hissing hot from the brain,
And anatomize Truth in the villanous strain.

Then the scouts of the stage with th' intelligence fly,
And the press nightly groans with a—sinister lie;
'Till the morn from its womb calls the monster away,
And the offspring of infamy sullies the day.

Like the sun now each Editor beams on his fool,
Of his follies the object, his passions the tool;
As he writes for his print what in dreams he supposes,
And celebrates Harlequin's—apotheosis.
But his noon-tide of flattery darts forth in rays,
So intense, that Credulity's set in a blaze;
For Truth, Fame, and Honor, they equally perish,
And scorch but the object they issued to cherish:
As the magical force that their pens can inspire,
Will ne'er raise the actor a single inch higher.
All faith we have lost in the arts necromantic,
And the man is the same, tho' the shade is gigantic.

Tho' callow novitiates the part may engage,
No Hamlet remains but his own on the stage:
He paints with discernment the woes of the youth,
And his tints are meek Nature's, corrected by Truth:
In particular scenes, even Garrick, tho vain,
Has fail'd so complete to delineate the Dane.
But he oft gives Thalia a stab in the vitals,
When his labours appear—but judicious recitals.
In his novel Mackbeth there are scenes which delight us,
And some which confound us, and some which affright us:
As he banquetting clenches his muscles material,
To bully poor Banquo who's nought and etherial.

Not content with receiving the debt that's his due,
Still John, in perspective, has others in view;
And thinking his consequence needs some addition,
Endeavours to subjugate all competition;
And nibbles at rivals, and envies the men,
'Till the gall of his heart finds the way to his pen.
With a true Kemble stomach, at all things he grapples,
As boys will steal plumbs while they're chewing their apples:
For Jealousy marks all the tribe with her greenness,
As Merit is labouring to dignify Meanness;
And force that respect by the impulse of Art,
Which Nature's vile seeds have denied to the heart.
—But who can efface what is written so plain
By the pencil of Nature? th' attempt were as vain
To wash off the hue from the dark Ethiopian,
Or realize schemes which are merely Utopian,
As drive from the mind such unworthy desires,
Where Envy and Hatred have kindled their fires!

Miss POPE.

Who's that bustling female—so careful to tread
With precision and rule, and a shake of the head;
'Tis Thalia's old handmaid, the excellent Pope,
Whose wishes have stray'd o'er the precincts of hope.

See Fretfulness sits on the tip of her nose,
And rouge on her cheek has reviv'd that gay rose
Which pain and anxiety long since had faded,
When Love's genial flame her young bosom invaded.

In tattling old spinsters she now has no equal,
(But that is a truth will be felt in the sequel;
When, laden with honours, and wounded by age,
The veteran Fair bids adieu to the Stage.)
A key to their follies, she's got by affinity,
And knows all the struggles of hapless virginity;
The colours that mark them on Hope's dark privation,
Their yellow despondence, and green desperation:
The flirt of the fan, when young beauties are near 'em,
Their high-born disdain, if keen satire should fleer 'em;
Those evils unnumber'd which goad them each hour,
And the talent to rail at the grapes—which are sour.

When Pleasure and Ease had seduc'd to their arms,
Convivial Clive, and the stage lost her charms;

The jest-loving muse was alarm'd at the story,
And fearing a rapid decline of her glory,
Deputed her Pope, as successor of Clive,
To keep poignant Wit and gay Laughter alive.

Mr. DODD.

Behold sprightly Dodd amble light o'er the stage,
And mimic young fops in despite of his age!

He poises his cane 'twixt his finger and thumb,
And trips to the fair, with a jut of the bum;
To see such an insect make love to the ladies,
Declares that profession—the bulk of their trade is:
He's been dipt in Salmacis enervating spring,
Which changes progressive the man to a—thing:
With a vacant os frontis, and confident air,
The minikin manikin prates debonnair:
As Quin said of Derrick, when making a rout,
You might take an extinguisher, and put him out.
He exhibits Mercutio's juvenile airs,
With a face charg'd with woe, like a pauper at prayers;
And so martyrs Queen Mab, and the consequent wit,
That we doubt if the text's what our Shakespeare once writ.

We may swear from his mien, that his humour was cast
In the light moulds of Fashion, full thirty years past;
In such acting we look on no effort that new is,
As he steers in midway between Cibber and Lewis;
Partaking of both, as all authors agree,
The Crocodile steals from the land and the sea;
And varies in nought from our grandmother's beaus,
But the curls on his pate, and the cut of his cloaths.
Yet his Drugger defies the stern critic's detection,
And his Ague Cheek touches the edge of perfection.

Mrs. CROUCH.

If Music hath charms to subdue the wild breast,
And fascinate Care from the mind that's distrest,
Let the children of Misery haste in a throng,
Surround lovely Crouch, and attend to her song!

Her accents flow gently, as translucent rills,
Her breath emits odour like newly-mown hills:
The force of her lays, like the Thracian lyre,
Can fierceness subdue, and the savage inspire;
They steal every sense from the finger of Sorrow,
And the wretch puts off Care, like a dun, till to-morrow,
They soothe the wild ravings of tyrannic rage,
And from Avarice turns the embraces of age.
It stops infant Sin in the path of perdition,
And binds by its spells the foul demon Ambition.
'Tis soft as the gentle Favonius' blows,
To awaken the sweets of the opening rose.
E'en Philomel listens to catch from her tune
New graces to carol, at eve, to the moon.

If Sylvia, innocent nymph, sings her pains,
What blandishments live in her harmonious strains,
When Dryden's gay Venus comes on with a smile,
To chaunt the bless'd boons of her favourite isle,
The soul of great Purcel bursts forth from the tomb,
And, listening, flutters with joy round the dome.
By her voice are the precepts of Wisdom supply'd,
And the Stoic's disrob'd of his weakness and pride;
For the heart's tender centinel's caught by surprise,
And Love gives the wound by which Apathy dies.

When Æolus ruffles the wings of the wind,
The sapphire-plum'd Halcyon flits to her mind;
There, nestl'd with Peace, no rude storms can resist her,
When couch'd by the veil of each cardinal sister.

Mr. MOODY.

Here comes lazy Moody—that indolent elf,
Seems lost in the deep contemplation of Self;
A noli me tangere sits on each feature,
Repelling the wishes of social good nature:
Approaching this wight, ere your wish you rehearse,
By instinct the man—claps his hand on his purse:

Go ask him his health, as—How are you, Sir, pray?
He'll answer—The Stocks, Friend—is that what you say?
By the Lord, man, they fell half an eighth yesterday.

To Laziness wedded, no passions can warm,
For he sleeps like a Belgian lake in a storm;
By his meanness subdu'd, his ambition is o'er,
And he crawls on the stage—but to add to his store.

'Tis ascertain'd easy, by plain Common Sense,
He's a Swiss in the drama, and fights for the pence:
No laudable motive, no love of the art,
Gives force to his judgment, or warmth to his heart.
He jogs the same trot he did ten years before,
Contented to know—two and two will make four.
Unknown to the Muses, and Excellence scorning,
He sighs for the stipend, and Saturday morning.
How curst must that dolt be, pursuing his pelf,
Who abdicates heaven to lean on himself:
So insatiate is Avarice, Philosophers fear it,
Like Charybdis it swallows all streams that come near it.

When I think of the worth of this veteran stager,
His Commodore Flip and Hibernian Major,

It mads me to see that the man is contented
To sculk to his tomb by each muse unlamented.
As he knows he can charm us whenever he'll please,
'Tis a shame he gets fat and enjoys so much ease!

Mrs. JORDAN.

Behold sportive Jordan, that favourite fair,
Who was sent by kind Fate to avert your despair:
With her you've successfully baited your trap;
She's in truth the best feather you have in your cap.
How you got her, to me, I must own, is a wonder!
When I think of your natural aptness to blunder.

She must have been forc'd on you, maugre your sighing,
As they give children physic, in spite of their crying.

Be wise, if you wish she should add to your store,
Let her put on Melpomene's buskins no more,
'Tho' the Scion could play ev'ry character well,
You should keep her in those where she's own'd to excel;
For Imogen's woes, or fair Viola's wit,
The decrees of Propriety mark'd her unfit:
Let her polish those talents which Heav'n has sent her,
And the Romp prove the climax to Moody's Tormentor.
Be that her ne plus—keep her actions in view,
Lest she wanders in labyrinths wanting a clew.
As she's mounted the summit of public applause,
Preserve her importance and husband the cause.
Go, copy the priesthood, their stratagems mind,
They know every path to the hearts of mankind.
As the good Saint of Naples is kept in a den,
To be shewn to the mob as a charm—now and then:
E'en thus keep your actress—whose well-tim'd inaction
Will only redouble her force and attraction.
Depend on't, like spendthrifts, incaution will hurt you,
For magnets oft us'd will lose much of their virtue.

In Nell all her infantine habits are shown,
And the rose of vulgarity flushes full blown.
Not a ray issues forth from her keen sable eye,
But gives all the race of Refinement the lye.
Her soul seems contented such feats to embrace,
Which are hostile to Decency, Greatness, and Grace!

But her name's not been rais'd by illiberal arts,
She came 'fore the audience, and rush'd to their hearts:
Their feelings acknowledg'd the nymph could inspire,
And fann'd the faint embers which glimmer'd with fire.
For there are, like your transparent paintings, design'd
Who derive half their worth from the light that's behind.

All honest encomium seems buried for ever,
As the Prints of the day must substantiate what's clever:
—If a hero comes forward a claimant on Glory,
He rises or falls—by the force of their story.
Tho' their praise, like thermometers, Causes subdue,
For it mounts, be the heat artificial or true;
And if, from their page, ev'ry judgment you quote,
They clash like the colours on Joseph's fam'd coat.
This hour to sleep all the critics implore him,
In the next, he eclipses—whate'er went before him.
—Thus shameless they vitiate the taste of the age:
By such base manœuvres men rise on the stage.

To acquire this fame, they must give great rewards,
Tho' such glory is built like a castle with cards,
Which younglings erect for the rapture of viewing,
But, touch'd by the finger of Truth—falls to ruin:
'Tis a transient meteor, an air-fashion'd bubble,
Which bursts in despite of their toil and their trouble.
In the theatre's womb, on a probation night,
All the critic battalions in terror unite,
And tho' potent absurdities neither can see,
All clam'rous dispute 'bout an A or an E;

Prate of sound, sense, and diction, with national pride,
And what Scotchmen call perfect the Irish deride:
Thus on Reason's establishment none can be quiet,
But wrangle in groups like the Polanders diet.

Mr. BENSLEY.

Hear Bensley, whose hollow and sepulchral note,
Seems heav'd from the lungs, to be forc'd thro' the throat:
He strides in the scene with magnanimous air,
And accompanies woe—with a start and a stare!
From the pale Ghost of Hamlet his graces he borrows,
And equally stalks in his joys and his sorrows;
Be it Pierre, or Iago, there needs not a chorus,
To tell us the Ghost is still walking before us!
He steps in such measure, each critic accords,
That he pays more attention to walking than words:
Each thought seems absorb'd in adjusting his figure,
He swells, as still wishing to look ten times bigger.

With three minuet steps in all parts he advances,
Then retires three more—strokes his chin, prates and prances,
With a port as majestic as Astley's horse dances.

But I must not omit, as I've mark'd each defect,
To aver that his part he has always correct;
And, knowing those faults which admit not prevention,
Essays to reduce them by care and attention.

Mr. BRERETON.

Lo! Brereton comes—to his feelings a prey,
To damp our enjoyments, and darken our day;
The hand of Disease has laid waste his meek mind,
To shew her great triumph o'er worth and mankind,

Mrs. BRERETON.

But, mark his pale wife—for, alas! hapless fair,
Her face is impress'd with the seal of Despair;

The mate of her bosom, poor nymph, she has lost,
And the transports of love are by destiny crost.

Who is there that would not endeavour to bless
A mind so enfeebled by social distress;
So torn by its pangs in religion's despite,
So young, yet shut out from domestic delight.
—With joy would I fly round the globe for relief,
Or extenuate aught that could add to her grief:
I'd bathe every wound her Creator has giv'n,
And step 'twixt her peace and the arrows of heaven.

Ye casuist tribes, tell us, why are we born
Predestin'd to drag thus a being forlorn;
Say, why should we suffer, unconscious of ill,
Or sigh, when a crime is unknown to the will;
But, fix'd in a fragile responsible state,
Must answer for vices we did not create!

Dear sister, may you and the nymph never sever;
Be kind to her sorrows—I'll love you for ever.

Mr. PARSONS.

Of Wit, see the harbinger break on the day,
Whose jokes banish Care, and make Misery gay;
'Tis Parsons, who oft the dull moment beguiles,
The father of Mirth. and, the patron of Smiles:
When he opens his mouth, the wide throng feel the jest,
And who but must laugh to hear wit with such zest?

In his features the satire we all can descry!
Like Champaign it sparkles, and brightens his eye:
When Hygeia frowns, his importance is seen
Then how dull is Thalia, how mawkish the scene!
All his substitutes mangle the parts which they play,
And make us regret such a man must decay;
Then Bartholo hangs by Pandora suspended,
And Greedy's vast pleasantries seem to have ended.
When death on poor Parsons shall e'er turn the table;
Gay Momus in heaven will put on his sable;
The eyes of gaunt Envy shall beam with delight on't,
And Spleen, when unsetter'd, with drink make a night on't.

Miss KEMBLE.

Hark! what shouting is this that disturbs the calm day,
See Satyrs and Sorcerers croud all the way,
'Tis an idiot, or driv'ller, the cavalcade tells,
For maddening Folly is tinkling her bells;

As the Magi their foul incantations prepare,
And with seeds of the mania impregnate the air!
See the Heroine comes—mark the wond'rous detail,
As Fashion elate snuffs the poisonous gale.—

Amazing! a third! lo, here's Kemble again,
With Kembles on Kembles they've choak'd Drury Lane;
The family rubbish have seiz'd public bounty,
And Kings, Queens, and Heroes pour forth from each county,
The barns are unpeopled—their half-famish'd sons
Waste the regions of Taste like th' irruption of Huns.
Like th' Hamaxobii tribes, whom Fatigue cannot tire,
They've starv'd, pray'd, and ranted, from shire to shire;
But cash is the magnet that draws them from far,
'Tis the god of their race, and their grand polar star.

In acting, her efforts excite but our sadness,
Like Edmund's orations, her works prove her madness.
As well might you pass for a Titus, Domitian,
Lord George as a saint, or Fuseli a Titian:

The lanes of Fleet-Ditch for the city of Cnidus,
Or the eyes of John Wilkes for the Georgium Sidus;
Or the thistles of Forth for the fleur-de-lis,
Or oily Frank Grose for the flippant Vestris,
As her for Alicia.—The attempt, on my word,
Is impudent, ignorant, gross, and absurd;
And proves for true sterling a vile succedaneum,
Like delft for the pott'ry of Old Herculaneum!
'Tis an insult to Reason—a vile imposition,
As e'er liv'd in tale, or grey-headed Tradition.
But the girl surely maddens with vainness or woe:—
Send Alicia to Ward, and the wench to—Monro.

When Rowe's glorious scenes, which from Nature he drew,
And Shore's hapless fortunes are plac'd in our view,
The sisters assume the great cast of the play,
And, as heroines both, they must both lead the way;
As one treads the boards, by fair Genius attended,
With t'other's presumption the House is offended;
'Tis a feast of strange viands, an incomplete dish,
Where the flesh is destroy'd by the fumes of the fish;
'Tis eating a haunch amid nausea and dirt,
'Tis wearing lace ruffles without any shirt;
'Tis purchasing trash most outrageously dear,
'Tis washing down turtle with mawkish small beer:
It is—but comparison falls far abaft her,
And Folly, triumphant, indulges her laughter.
No wonder in sickness for credit you seek,
When beings like that have Ten Guineas a-week.

—But hearing the sum, see! the Muses turn pale,
And meek Probability shrinks at the tale;
Amazement with wonder aghast lifts her head,
And Excellence sighs in Humility's shed.

If Prudence attempts to develope the cause,
She's silenc'd by one who can o'erleap your laws:
The Siddons exclaims,—Know that Fanny's my sister;
And knowing but that, tell me, who dare resist her?

Permit ye an Actress to wield your state sceptre,
When riches of Gratitude thus has bereft her?
Ye Managers rise from foul Lethargy's den,
Tho' unfit to be kings, shew the world you are men:
Admit humble Merit to peep on your stage,
And let not proud Insolence hoodwink the age;
Make the sisters fill parts as their faculties suit,
Let one play the Victim—the other—be mute.

How many act parts full of bustle and racket,
And arrogate madly the Harlequin jacket.
See Boswell (but who for such drudg'ry more fit?)
Collect the vile refuse of poor Johnson's wit;
And fir'd with zeal, for the scavenger's warm on't,
Indite what Sam did, when his wisdom lay dormant;

When Hate barr'd his heart and bade Ridicule show it,
And treading on Churchill made Pomfret a poet
Lo! he dresses the attribute tawdry, tho' true,
And the errors of greatness exposes to view;
Then mounts the Leviathan's back in full motion,
And, holding his tail, ventures forth in the ocean;
Where plung'd in deep waters—alas! what a whim,
Bellows forth to mankind—how we geniusses swim!

But John Bull is a beast; for who will may e'en ride him,
And Folly and Fashion each moment bestride him;
They stroke the base brute, as their views they dissemble,
From dingy Buzaglo to modest John Kemble.

Ridiculous Isle!—for imposture so fit,
Where the spunge of Credulity soaks up their wit;
Where ideots are honour'd, and Graham can lecture,
And Vice scoff at morals, yet none will detect her!
But the Town oft uplifts that vile varlet who bilks 'em,
And Worth brings the cows tho' 'tis Knavery milks 'em.
Thus your methodist tribes make their order a jest,
For half become brethren—to plunder the rest.

Mr. CHARLES BANNISTER.

Avaunt, ye pale crew! Care's black altars adorning,
And flit like the mists from the beams of the morning,
Behold laughing Charles, great Anacreon's own son!
Whose brow's wreath'd with ivy, his drinking has won.
By the Grecian inspir'd, he's blissful and gay,
As he journies thro' life, Love and Wine lead the way.
He's beckon'd to bliss by the wiles of gay Venus,
And hail'd to the joys of the glass by Silenus;

'Till Charles, like Alcides, is pos'd to obey
The impulse of a heart, where they both hold the sway.

So tuneful his pipe, so mellifluous its sound,
It unpeoples the groves, and the fawns flock around;
The herds leave their browsings and list to his strains,
Even Pan and the Dryads fly swift from the plains.
The blythe purple god, whose oblation inspires,
And gives back to age all its amorous fires;
High flush'd with delight, lauds the song from his seat,
And the tygers, unyok'd, lick the minstrels feet;
As roseate wild Bacchants in extasy twine
His locks with the tendrils they've torn from the vine.
He seizes young Joy, and, arresting his pow'r,
Appoints him the guardian to flit round his hour,
To crush palsied Care, with his train of offences,
And human infirmity shut from his senses;
The full festive goblet he plies in quick measure,
And Laughter attends as the chorus of Pleasure;
And loosens elated the springs of the soul,
And empties with glee the nectareous bowl;
With extacy tastes ev'ry blessing that's in it,
And swift analyses the bliss of the minute;
Then plunders from Plenty the gifts of each season,
As gay vive l'amour forms the creed of his reason;
When Whitely's disciple, gay Charles was the same,
Tho' unknown to Economy, Comfort, or Fame.

Like a prostitute chang'ling dame Fortune he worries,
Her bounty abuses, her passions he flurries;
And receives her choice gifts as the fruit of a whim,
Which Caprice showers careless on Honour or him;
But the minx still adores, tho' the varlet thus treats her,
And, like Russian ladies, grows fond—'cause he beats her.

In thunder harmonious, his cadences roll,
And the full tide of Melody pours on the soul;
His tones the cold breast of Frigidity warming,
Are audible, sonorous, manly and charming.

In the Strangers at Home, (a strange medley indeed!
Where jest, noise, and nonsense each other succeed,
Compos'd of strange oddities jumbled together,
Like men in a porch, to avoid rainy weather:
Where wonder meets wonder, and plot on plot thickens,
As Nature recedes, and Enquiry sickens;
Where Reason, poor nymph, is stuck fast in a bog,
Or like the Egyptians immers'd in a fog;
Where Folly, with fond expectation looks big,
To see Truth overthrown, or the Poles dance a gig.)

There Charles, like a monster, is muzzled in spirit,
And dragg'd forth to growl at the funeral of Merit,
With a strange group of mortals, escap'd from strange dangers,
Where he is the strangest by far 'mid the Strangers.

How different the man, when impervious to duns,
Rosy Charles o'er his wine manufactures his puns,
As the clock's tatt'ling pendulum hints in the nick,
That Time flies away, and he's running—on tick!
But he conquers all thoughts of the first, by a bumper,
And laughs at the last—'till it mounts to a thumper!

Mrs. HOPKINS.

Here comes antique Hopkins, a piece of stage lumber,
Who fills up a niche, and adds one to the number;
Like vases arrang'd o'er the chimney for shew,
She closes a void, and makes perfect the row:
But a sameness prevails in all parts that she plays,
And sameness in acting's repulsive to praise;
For struggling to shew the great test of her skill,
The effort is vain, and—'tis Heidleburgh still.
When she fails, 'tis apparent she did not intend it;
The fault is in Nature, she cannot amend it;
Who mix'd in her juices the Heidleburgh drop,
Which, like corks in a river, will swim at the top.

Mr. JAMES AICKIN.

With strong sensibility, wakeful and keen,
See Aickin advance, with a complacent mien;
Few Actors have e'er better known Nature's laws,
And, learning her dictates, have got less applause.
When the parent comes forth to admonish his child,
What player can do it in accents so mild?
His periods with gentle persuasion are hung,
As the fruit of philanthropy drops from his tongue:
When Clarissa's good father's impell'd to reprove,
'Tis the warmth of resentment corrected by love;
As the noble conceptions which flow from his breast,
Are with all the true force of the Christian imprest.
His Freeport's an instance of mercantile good,
For his tenets of honor add warmth to the blood;
We give him most gladly the tributes of praise,
And accompany all that he does and he says.

Mrs. FOSTER.

Who's that laurel'd Honor is forcing along?
'Tis Foster, meek nymph, who exists but in song;

Like the Medicis statue, to Decency true,
Her wishes seem bent to recede from the view.

An air of mild elegance marks ev'ry motion,
At Modesty's shrine the coy nymph pays devotion:
And should find the effects of such laudable duty,
A strong counter-balance for personal beauty.
Her tones in sweet melody solace the ear,
Like a murm'ring riv'let not deep, but yet clear;
Tho' her merits won't bear the stern critics inspection,
Her gentleness tacitly pleads for protection.

Mr. PACKER.

Behold hoary Packer, grown grey on that soil,
Where we've long known him little great Roscius's foil;
For e'en Garrick the weakness of Nature partook,
And squar'd half his actions from Jealousy's book.

—That he hated all genius which blaz'd to excel,
Could Powell or Henderson speak, they would tell.
When he peeps on the stage the dull wight comes too soon,
Like Michaelmas Day to a moneyless loon.

Lo! he looks like pale Thrift, when he duns for a debt,
Or, a woeful Whereas, in the London Gazette;
Or the herald of Ill, with an aspect suspicious,
And muscles deep-furrow'd, and brow inauspicious.

I prithee, dear Sister, bid Packer retire
To a good easy chair, and a warm social fire;
Let him spend his last days unembitter'd by pain,
Smoke his pipe, and reflect—on the Kings he has slain:
There touch'd by Garrulity—hapless disease,
Let him praise what he's seen, and lament what he sees;
Let him talk of his Cibbers, his Clives, and his Quins,
And now and then break Possibility's shins.

Let him add to their honors some friendly addition,
And redden, if Moderns should name competition;
But if his theatric crust he will mumble,
You must pity the man, when the actor shall stumble.

Mr. BADDELY.

With crab-apple phiz, and a brow that's disdainful,
See Baddely smile with fatigue that is painful;
From his dissonant voice, and the form of each feature,
You'd swear him the favourite child of Ill-nature;
The semblance of Love, in a mind so saturnine,
Like china embellishments, Labour must burn in.
Thus Nero would frown when he Mercy dismay'd,
Thus Herod appear'd when Humanity pray'd.

He snarls through his parts, be they easy or hard,
Like a mastiff that's chain'd to bay thieves from a yard.
Tho' none the misanthrope can copy so well,
As an actor, he's slovenly—Candour must tell;
And changes his dress in so careless a hurry,
He looks near as dingy as F--- or Lord S---y;

And damns that strong prejudice rais'd against dirt,
Which forces a man to put on a clean shirt:
As a commerce, where Freedom for Fashion we barter,
And poison the essence of Runnymede Charter.
Bid him turn Zoroaster's disciple, I pray,
And wash his anatomy five times a day;
His enacting coarse Brainworm's a noble exertion,
And Polonius and Trinculo feed our diversion.

Miss GEORGE.

See George in the sweet paths of Melody tread,
By dull, frigid Insensibility led:
Tho' careless to please, her meek essays delight,
For she charms the rude throng, e'en in Dullness' despite.—
Had her gentle strains join'd the Syrens' fell band,
Ulysses had row'd to their dangerous land;
His Prudence had fled, and, his Wisdom had slept,
And Juno had rav'd, and Minerva had wept:
Then his name had not shone in the immortal story,
And Ithaca's matron had sigh'd for his glory.

Its anodyne powers the sick'ning make cheery,
And tears off the chain from the mind of the weary;

By her soft, blissful sonnets, all bosoms inspiring,
Even Spleen grows diseas'd—and, Despair lies expiring.
As the lark chaunts at sun-rise his diurnal pray'r,
All her loud liquid notes charge the babbling air;
The sounds were not sweeter when Thebes' famous wall
Obey'd the soft magic of Harmony's call;
For spells may be said to exist in that tone,
Whose graces can conquer all hearts—but her own.
Cecilia thus warbled the heaven-fraught line,
For her song was ador'd ere the nymph was divine.

Mr. JOHN BANNISTER.

Who's this that comes forward and squeezes his hat,
Then recedes with a bow, smiles, smirks, and all that;

'Tis the smart younger Bannister, flush'd in a pother,
To turn to a jest ev'ry dramatic brother.
Pray let him speak Prologues, and drop such a measure,
It props not his fame, if it adds to his pleasure.

He has long strove to build him a high reputation,
On an unstable basis, I mean—imitation;
Imitation's a weak and a dang'rous endeavour
On others' demerits to win public favour;
And speaks a low mind, most egregiously prone,
To catch Folly's errors, and make them our own;
An expedient that oft keeps the blockheads in tune:
But the man it degrades, tho' it suits the buffoon.
That the head is too soft, 'tis a tacit confession;
For, like melting wax, it receives each impression:
Like evil companions, it poisons each station;
We cannot shake off the foul communication:
Like the arts of a juggler, it's excellence lies
In casting a film 'tween our reason and eyes;
In artfully stealing 'twixt sight and conception;
'Till, pleas'd with the trick, we applaud the deception.

Amid all the younglings which strut on the stage,
John Bannister mixes most wit in his rage;
He promises largely, from what we perceive,
And the more we survey him, the more we believe:
Tho' his tragical bouncing, and blust'ring, and bellowing,
Tell loudly and truly, his judgment wants mellowing.

Mr. DIGNUM.

See Dignum trip onward, as Cymon array'd,
Both apish and awkward, unlearn'd, and ill made;
The wight has each requisite fitting a clown,
Save bashfulness,—that is a sense he's ne'er known:
Did the varlet affect but to blush, he would cheat us;
For Nature imbronz'd him when scarcely a fœtus:
And the Hibernian atoms descend in his race,
Their foreheads to shield from so foul a disgrace:
With Webster or Vernon the youth could but vie ill;
For he is a vox, et præterea nihil.

Ye gods! what wild havock is made by Ambition!
Tho' she oft brings her slaves to a state of contrition,
She made pious Dornford, a half-witted railer;
And spoil'd, in young Dignum,—an excellent taylor.

'Tis wond'rous we find not, in Opera's van,
A singing Novitiate, who looks like a Man:—
But Grace, that to song should be ever allied,
Left the stage of the world, as her favourite died.

When Death seiz'd our Webster, his heaven-born wife,
Sweet Grace, (whom he wedded and cherish'd thro' life,
Whose mild hallowed influence led him along,
Ennobled his action, and breath'd thro' his song:)
Survey'd, like a Persian bride, his remains,
As the pulses of horror beat high thro' her veins;
Then frowning on Fate, who seized all she enjoy'd,
With Misery laden, herself she destroy'd:
Disdaining existence, his ashes she fir'd,
Ascended the pile, gave a sigh, and expir'd.

Mrs. WARD.

In smart walking ladies, and Tragedy queens,
See Ward take the lead, tho' long out of her teens:
To Nature, for beauty, she's somewhat in debt;
And is perfectly learn'd in the stage etiquette.
That Merit smiles on her, it must be confess'd;
And she always takes care that her person's well dress'd.

Not like some of her sisters, whose raiment's so shabby,
They look like wax figures from Westminster Abbey,
Who've forestall'd the last trumpet, and rose in a hurry,
Half painted, half clad, and unnerv'd by the flurry.
Lady Alworth, neat Ward can respectably fill,
And proud Margaretta owes much to her skill.

Mr. FAWCET.

Behold a great man! 'tis magnanimous Fawcet,
Who turns the best cream of the Muse to a posset;
Meek Modesty's dictates he treats as a jest,
Assails her dominions, and spurns her behest:
Should the wench, hapless, venture but once in his reach,
He'd savagely give her a kick on the breech.
But, the Great Man is rich, and, he labours to shew it,
And thinks, by such madness, the world will all know it.
Oh! bless'd independence!—for, Fawcet has clear
Twelve Pounds Seven Shillings and Sixpence a-year;
Besides some expectancies yet in futuro
From an uncle, who lives by the Tempests in Truro.
By Ignorance nurtur'd, by Vanity rais'd,
That fungus-fraught caitiff has hopes to be prais'd;

Tho' he curses old Cadmus with vehement spite,
Who first taught our sires grey sires to write!

Shall Satire again say, that Fortune is blind,
When, to objects like him, she's so wond'rously kind?
The gift of perception she sure does inherit,
To softer the dawn of such—marvellous merit.

In Dion he fidgets, and foams at the gallery,
'Till Tragedy laughs at the comical raillery;
When he struts, such embargoes are laid on his motion.
You'd swear he was costive, and wanted a potion;
Or a catholic sinner, whose penance decrees
He should walk for a month, with his shoes full of peas:
Melpomene surely would scold, could she find him,
For leaving his breeches—so often behind him!

Mrs. WILSON.

Tripping light o'er the ground, see gay Wilson advancing,
Like the suite of the Morning, which Guido drew dancing;
Or the dimpl'd Euphrosyne, arm'd in her eyes,
Or a Parthian huntress, who wounds as she flies.
She bursts on mankind like the type of Good Humour,
And her smiles have a spell that can regulate Rumour:

So archly she looks, and so beauteous her face is,
Like Venus escap'd from the hands of the Graces.
Such Wilson now is, by the wanton loves led,
Such B---y once was, ere her innocence fled.
Behold that frail fair, how depress'd and dejected,
By a Public despis'd, by that Public neglected;
Tho' her face wears a smile, the sad effort of art,
The light Troop of Gladness have long fled her heart;
In which chilly Misery ever will mourn,
And pant for that peace which must never return.—
No roses remain, the fond wish to inflame,
Except when her cheek is suffus'd by her shame.
Her husband's pale manes obtrude on her slumbers,
And point out his mission in Fate's awful numbers;
'Till, madd'ning with woe, and, from happiness driv'n,
She turns from her vices to supplicate Heaven!

Ye daughters of Beauty, to worth be inclin'd,
Preserve your importance, and brighten mankind;
Be taught by example, ye cannot be blest,
If Virtue withdraws her sweet beams from the breast;
That the wiles of Seduction are meant to destroy,
And extinguish that lamp which should light us to joy!

How serenely sits Innocence, heaven-born maid!
With the precepts of angels her mind is array'd;
She guides her calm being, unconscious of strife,
And smiles as the Fates cut the thread of her life:
The last sighs of Virtue are Nature's great pride,
They turn the fell dart, fraught with sorrow, aside;

The pangs of Mortality sink in the ablution,
They triumph o'er Death in the bright dissolution.
Tho' Want's pallid arm the faint victim incloses,
Her faith in her God strews her pillow with roses;
Her spirit ascends o'er the bourn of her mind,
And leaves the base dregs of existence behind.

Mr. WILLIAMES.

To Decency dear, and, to Merit long known,
See Williames advance to Calliope's throne;
Tho' the tones of his voice are restrain'd within bounds,
They form a sweet concord of heavenly sounds:
If to greatness unequal, each essay prevails,
For his diffidence aids where ability fails,
As encircl'd he stood in the temple of Fame,
'Twas himself that alone had a doubt of his claim.

Mr. SUETT.

What gaunt youth is that who encounters the sight,
'Tis Suett, equipt as the Clown in Twelfth Night;

With front unabash'd thus Presumption begins;
Thus asses of old have assum'd lions' skins.

Go, ask why that Folly should thus be his debtor,
The argument's us'd, that they can't find a better;
Thus scarceness gives value to dirt and mundungus,
And dignifies that Nature meant as a fungus;
It etchings enhances, like Baillies and Hollars,
It currency gave to American Dollars;
But, their day being o'er, and, the exigence past,
To their primitive meanness they all sink at last;
And their names, and the phantom they toil'd to pursue,
In pity Oblivion hides from our view.
But fungus and filth has its uses and buyers,
Hence oceans of urine are purchas'd by dyers;
And lawyers, who liv'd but to generate strife,
May serve when they're dead for th' Anatomist's knife.

Mr. BARRYMORE.

With arms close enfolded, and gigantic stride,
Denoting ill manners, defiance, and pride,
Who's that strutting round like a Tragedy king;
Do you know, my sweet sister, the confident thing?

—See! he's coming this way!—and, my stars, how he lours,
Have you no apt exorcism to fetter his pow'rs?
He surely will eat us—Ah me! what vain fears,
'Tis Barrymore, Sister, I see the man's ears.

To the altars of Modesty, fly, thou vain youth!
And survey thy deserts in the mirror of Truth;
Clear the filth from your brain, and adhere to the poet,
For there's worth hid beneath, tho' the public don't know it.

Such once were my thoughts, but those thoughts are no more,
His wit slew his weakness, his follies are o'er;
The strength of his mind wrought a lively conception,
And each hour that rolls leads the man to Perfection.
Thus Albion's fifth Harry, whose weakness amaz'd;
Dropt the habits of guilt and illustriously blaz'd:
And gave added charms to that name he'd neglected,
By paying a debt that was never expected.

Mr. WRIGHT.

Who's that looks so fiercely! oh, I ken the wight,
'Tis the drama's Drawcansir, the bold Roger Wright!
Have you no work cut out, that you let him thus roam?
In a Bailiff or Murderer, Roger's at home:
Tho' 'tis known from the first he has constantly fled,
And murders in jest, but—to get himself bread;
He often damns bailiffs; for Roger hates law;
And the dagger his feelings will scarce let him draw.
Hard case! when an actor is destin'd to play,
In parts were antipathies block up his way:
But nothing should stop the career of ambition,
Tho' Fate open'd wide the black gates of Perdition!

Alas! who'd imagine good acting was rare,
When every Whipster can thus be a Play'r?
—The science of acting from Nature requires
A genius that knows all her force and her fires;
A classical, polish'd, and well-govern'd mind,
A taste that's correct, boundless, good, and refin'd;
Endowments that seldom are met with in men,
But, like comets, just blaze on the world now and then.

Yet none are alarm'd at so great an assumption;
For Folly has ever been mark'd by presumption.
But touch'd by the dog-star he'll bellow self-pleas'd,
With incontinent rant, and a mind that's diseas'd;
Like Icarus madly he soars to the sun,
'Till his wings melt in air, and the man is undone.
Even Lords and young spinsters of Elegance strive,
Who shall wear the sock best and keep Laughter alive.

Like the wheels of a watch is the actor's estate,
Where the small have their motion impell'd by the great;
And each must fulfill the intent of his station,
And make up a whole—by progressive gradation.

Mrs. LOVE.

Depress'd by stern Time, see poor Love make her way,
And, spurning the tyrant, affect to look gay:

In Dorcas she still can administer pleasure,
And shines in old women a dramatic treasure;
Besides, as a vet'ran, poor Love has a claim
To draw on Compassion, if not upon Fame.

Mr. R. PALMER.

Here's Palmer the younger, so trim, pert, and nice,
I pray give the hero—a piece of advice:
Let him strive all he can to avoid imitation;
And forget on the stage he e'er had a relation;
'Tis highly disgusting, beholding one brother
Exhibit, with pride, all the faults of the other.
Besides, he's too apt to survey the green boxes,
For his porter-fraught friends, and his cheek-painted doxies.
—Of all other follies, this sure's most absurd,
Not to list to the scene, and to feel every word.
Some strokes shew his mind is not mark'd by sterility,
His Prompt proves the Actor has great capability.

********

What monster is this, who alarms the beholders,
With Folly and Infamy perch'd on his shoulders;
Whom hallow'd Religion is lab'ring to save,
Ere Sin and Disease goad the wretch to his grave,
'Tis ---! Alas, Nature starts at the name;
And trembles with horror, and reddens with shame!
Like the Ocean which weeps, when the tempests allay'd,
She shudders to look on the work she has made.
I marvel that God does not open the place,
To ingulph him, like Corah, and all his foul race.

In their hate of his principles, all are agreeing,
And the fruit of his loins curse the cause of their being.
Like a pestilent breeze, he infects these sad times,
A vile abstract of hell, and Italia's crimes!
See Justice offended, exhibits a halter;
And the crucifix shakes as he crawls to the altar:
E'en Angels drop tears in such habits to find him:
As he throws Retribution with horror behind him.
When his soul disembogues each infernal transgression,
Sweet Mercy revolts at the sable confession.
And Honour and Truth form a strong combination
To kick such a miscreant thro' the creation.
Lo! Eternity's paths he with terror explores,
As dæmons look up from sulphureous shores:
While Tartarean bards chaunt the caitiff's encomium,
And Satan sits hunger'd in deep Pandemonium.

His touch is contagious and preys on our sanity,
Offensive to life, and abhorr'd by humanity.
Like the plague-fraught embrace of a foul Alepponian,
Or the incrusted glove of a sick Caledonian;
It nips Virtue's bud, like the winds from the east,
Or Circe's fell wand, turns the fool to a beast:
Or that hot-bed of vagabonds, rais'd on the breast
Of fallen Britannia, to sing her to rest;
Where anticks Discretion can kick till she winces,
And rascal castratos strut prouder than princes:
Where Countesses fight, to kiss sapless Tenducci;
Or tie on the sandals of black Catenucci.

Is it wond'rous that you such antipathy see,
When the tyrant to Virtue's a tyrant to me?
Go, shew me the den where a scoundrel's confin'd,
I'll strike his black heart, and unnerve his base mind;
I'll goad him thro' life with the rod of Correction,
Till his scull pendant locks shall turn grey with reflection;
From the arm of a Titan I'd tear him elate,
Tho' guarded by all the artillery of Fate:
If I quit him, may Peace and my penitence sever;
And the smiles of Omnipotence leave me for ever.

It boots not with me if his infamous darings
Are hid by a star, or armorial bearings:

As Gregory made the proud Emperor wait,
Bare-footed and cold, at Canusium's gate;
E'en thus shall the haughty bend low at my nod,
Confess their allegiance, and honour my rod.

Nefarious island! oh, besotted nation!
Where Folly, to Vice, runs in studied gradation.
See Guilt on the judgment seat, mark'd by pollution,
To watch the degrees of a mean prosecution;
To determine the outlines of right and of wrong,
As manacled Honour is led thro' the throng;
To meet cunning Sophistry's wily position,
And the half famish'd sons of illicit Ambition.

Say, who shall be bless'd, if a Howard's unsainted!
Say, who is unsullied, if Curtius is tainted!
But his worth, like true gold, from the chemical fire,
Will rise less alloy'd, and be valu'd the higher;
And the lie of the moment, which Malice had sign'd,
Sweet Truth shall expunge from the national mind:
As the lion, awak'ning on Nemea's plain,
Indignant shakes off the dank dew from his mane.

The detested miscreant personified in this description, read his portrait, reflected, and expired.

A Visionary Episode.

High rais'd o'er the rest, see meek Janus exalted,
Who ne'er, from the whisp'rings of Conscience, defaulted:
Tho' patriot antipathies drove the keen wight
From the luminous realms of political light;
The vile impositions imbib'd in his youth,
Were effac'd by the impulse of heavenly Truth;

No spark of intrigue, from Saint Omer's remains,
To light that evasion which sleeps in his veins;
And 'tis shameful to call him, or vile, or rapacious,
Who hates all the race, from C---s F*x to Ignatius.

To strengthen his schemes in the bless'd occupation,
Moll Brooks offer'd Pam a high-season'd oblation,
Composed of odd remnants, with nice circumspection,
That the dice had long levell'd in social connection:
A maudlin young Peer, in a gloomy immersion;
A Judge, with the seals of the land—in reversion;
An eminent Rascal, who'd trod round the laws;
A Play-wright, who lost his best wits by applause;
A Captain, deep laden with jokes from Joe Miller,
A Duke, undisturb'd by one penny of siller:
A right honour'd Scoundrel, who liv'd to debase
Those old-fashion'd virtues, which govern'd his race;
A Surgeon, once wont to be-rhime o'er his beer;
A specious Attorney, and dull Pamphleteer:
A Lord who gave Hymen a fete Prudence dreaded,
'Tho he tift with his wife ere the parties were bedded;
A Parson, who ne'er from his vices retreated;
A tactick-taught General, nine times defeated;
A Patriot, red-hot from the bogs of Ierne,
A Caitiff, who stole all his groats from Lord V---y;
A Col'nel, who ne'er was, by blushing, confounded;
Who bounces, like Falstaff, of men he ne'er wounded;
And embryo Statesmen, in scores did exhibit;
And Gamesters, just snatch'd from th' insatiate gibbet;

And S---th the despondent, not bless'd with a stiver,
Who lost all his joys, like a true Scavoir vivre;
From the columns of smoke issu'd halters unnoos'd,
Bloody hands, writs, and coronets, dim and confus'd.

The tott'ring old Sybil, the off'ring prepares,
And adds to the force her immaculate pray'rs;
With combustible vice fill'd the yawning tripod,
And augur'd success from the smiles of the god:
Then the work was complete, that the fiend meant to win him,
And the chief felt the sting of the mania within him:
Like a methodist foaming, he rav'd thro' the earth,
And bellow'd its comforts, and own'd the new birth;
Caught the semblance of Plutus, by Moll's sable art,
And the sight brac'd those nerves which had sunk round his heart!

Thus fir'd, adroitly his subject he changes,
And o'er the wide fields of Sublimity ranges,
Flies off at a tangent, talks long, and talks loud,
His feet in Saint Stephen's, his head in a cloud;
There he licks with his tongue in each labour'd essay,
Not Blarney's fam'd stone, but the smooth milky way.
How piteous! that Fury should ever step in,
To madden his song, when he lacerates Sin!
Rehearsing the theme of the Minister's duties,
He sings of his weakness in metaphor beauties;
And, arming his periods with soft necromancy,
Gives one to the point, and nineteen to the—Fancy.

Mr. WRIGHTEN.

Oh, oh! my friend Wrighten, is he in the cluster?
I soon can find him, by his bouncing and bluster;
Tho' he clips Common Sense, with a mouthful of plums,
By the aid of his wife he can butter his crums;
Not having the fear of remorse 'fore his eyes,
Poor Nature incessantly stabs till she dies;
And murders Heroics, and storms at their death;
Then runs round the stage—to recover his breath:
And, wonderful! growls, if he gets not applause;
Tho' he violates Reason, and treads on her laws.

Mr. STAUNTON.

What animal's this! like the daw in his plumes?
Is it Staunton who thus on your presence presumes?
What the Deuce was it thrust such a man in Or sino?
He's as far from the truth as Pall Mall from Urbino.
See, his essays have made poor Propriety puke,
And the best we can say is—he makes a rum duke.

I pity poor Cranford, and Tidswell, and Burnet,
While the nymphs chew an oath, when they dare not return it:
It hurts me to see radiant beauty like their's,
Devoted to watch the caprice of high play'rs;
As skirtings of worth, like your mundungus wrappers,
The refuse of vagrants, and stage understrappers.
Let the Ladies quit trade, like prudential Maskins,
And mend, in a corner, the king's galligaskins:

By rigid economy gather small riches,
Or darn up a rent in Prince Prettyman's breeches;
Or kiss the young Roscius who snores on a pallet;
Or dress, without oil, the salubrious sallet;
And hot mutton chop, reeking, crisp, sweet and versal,
To solace poor Tom when he comes from rehearsal.

Let the group that remain all recede in a throng;
And, 'tis well for their jackets, their claims are unsung:
Besides, there's not one of the Parnassian Muses,
But smiles to such earthenware beings refuses:
As well might train-bands claim a knowledge of arms,
As caitiffs like those, but to look on their charms:
Tho' their clamours oft bring their good humour to trial,
For, like hungry duns, they'll accept no denial,
But hang round their gates, while by strength they are able,
And feed on the offals that fall from their table.
It has long been a maxim upheld beyond doubt,
Where nothing is in, nothing e'er can come out;
To animadvert on the claims of such men,
Were to prostitute Candour, as well as the pen.

Alas! did kind Nature permit them to feel;
'Twould be cruel such insects to break on the wheel:
Thus like stinted grass on the plain's vernal bed,
The sharp scythe of Judgment flies over their head.
While the tempest's keen rage is dismant'ling the tow'r,
The cot of humility's safe from its pow'r.

Then go, ye base tribe, read the decalogue o'er,
Retreat to your sheds, and, be varlets no more:

Thank the gods, that your state has protected your shins;
Chaunt your vespers in peace, and, go sleep in whole skins;
Nor utter, despondent, that Satire will flay us,
For Hercules wars but with men like Antæus!

END OF PART FIRST.