 | Poems |  |
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.
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