 | Poems |  |
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.
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:
25
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.
26
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!
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!
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