Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.