Miscellanies (1785) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Upon a Card, as white as snow,
Fairer than message cards below;
Fairer than those, on which the belle,
Sends, by her Hermes, to Pall Mall
The modish message of the day,
To form the party for the play,
Or fix the hour of dear quadrille,
That life's gay wheel may ne'er stand still:
The Muses sign'd a soft address,
Which Colman, carried off express.

THE MUSES TO ROSCIUS.
While Mel. and Tha. are gone to heaven,
We, your admirers, sisters seven,

138

Send this, to beg you may not sell,
Till he who buys, can act as well;
When such a bidder you can find,
We'll bear to hear, that you've resign'd;
Consent, we have a right to claim;
Obey, and trust us with your fame;
From each, a compliment receive,
And kiss the wreathe the Muses weave.
I Clio, in th' immortal page,
Will bid you live thro' every age;
And I, Calliope the fair,
Will make your harmony my care;
Your dulcet powers of voice record,
And tell the music of each word.
Erato and Terpsichore,
Will guard your dance and poetry,
Ours be the office to rehearse
Your turn for epilogue, so terse:
Our Phoebus scorns the epigram.
And blazons only epic fame;
The gentle sallies of a morning,
His godship trusts, to our adorning:

139

Euterpe, though you seldom sing,
Pays you the honours of a king:
I, Polyhymn your memory love,
Urane, historian above,
Upon a sunbeam, writes your name,
And Garrick consecrates to fame:
While we, the sister Graces, vow,
To celebrate your air and bow.
Given at our court, Parnassus mountain,
By us—Princesses of the fountain:
By us, your friends, the Muses seven,
While t'other two are gone to heaven.

Our poet now, his hobby strode,
And briskly took the London road:
But, ere he came to Drury Lane,
Thalia, press'd the Olympian plain,
For, as no turnpikes tax the air,
The sisters presently were there;
On earth we often go on gravel,
But all on down in heav'n, they travel;

140

The path is cut thro' æther clear,
A mild and milky atmosphere:
And, as you reach the realms of day,
There's not a pebble in the way:
When once you get beyond the sun,
So wondrous rapidly you run,
You'd think, so smooth it is and even,
You mov'd on feather beds to heaven.
Hence Venus, with a thousand Loves,
Yokes but a single pair of doves,
Which, manag'd, with a silken rein,
Skim up and down the rich domain:
Cupid, to fly beside her chooses:
Juno a brace of Peacocks uses:
And as 'tis all an easy flight,
Their chariots are exceeding light.

Mercurius, summon'd by the Muse,
Flew to Elisium with the news,
And lighting on the poets' walk,
The circle found, in various talk.

141

Shakespeare, majestic in his mien,
Superior to the rest was seen,
“Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove,
An eye like Mars,” the lip of Love,
Mark'd him, from all the lofty band:
A deathless laurel in his hand,
A wreath by all the Muses wove,
Where each, in rival emblems strove;
A tribe of Grecians view'd his grace,
With all the Romans of the place;
The fathers of th' Athenian stage,
Poets sublime, of every age:
Virgil, stood gazing on his face,
“The characters of Truth to trace;”
Sagacious Plato with surprize,
Saw inspiration in his eyes;
The piercing Sophocles was struck,
At glory beaming in his look;
Cold Aristotle, bent the knees,
Asham'd to own his unities;
Homer himself, to sight restor'd,
Embrac'd him, as an equal lord;

142

Apollo—who that day was there,
Proclaim'd the bard his favourite care.
Johnson was near, in learned state,
Severe in look, of step sedate,
Chill erudition in his air,
With all an anxious scolar's care:
The tuneful twins together sat,
Still brother-bards, in friendly chat;
Thomson, on beds of roses laid,
Was twisting chaplets in the shade;
His harp to heavenly subjects strung,
Spoke the bold hand of solemn Young;
The gentle Otway press'd the green,
Still sovereign of the tender scene,
An angel audience, own'd his sway,
From polish'd Rowe, to pleasing Gay;
Milton, whom all with reverence view,
Possest the scenes that once he drew;
Known by his gait, and sounding lyre,
Poor Lee was there, with eyes on fire,

143

Hurrying he went, from grove to grove,
And ranted rage, or sung of love.

Another part, adorn'd with bowers,
Contain'd Thalia's lively powers;
Horace, appear'd as king of wit,
And Swift maintain'd a regal seat:
Of play-house bards, a numerous train,
Were still disputing who should reign:
The brilliant stroke, the satire smart,
The keen retort, around they dart:
Even here, they seem'd to hate a brother,
And tore the laurel from each other.
Old Wycherly assum'd the head,
But mighty Dryden took the lead:
Whene'er the wond'rous poet sung,
All Paradise responsive rung:
Ev'n Phillip's godlike son, to hear,
Would list'ning, lean upon his spear,
And sooth'd by sound, even yet, was vain,
Then sigh'd to have his ode again.

144

Congreve now thought it no disgrace,
But wore a smile upon his face,
And yet, I've heard, would now and then,
Say civil things to Mrs. Behn.
The bard could ne'er his forte forget,
But lov'd to joke about it, yet:
The courtly Vanburgh too, was near,
Whisp'ring in laurell'd Cibber's ear;
With many a merry bard beside,
Thalia's honour, boast, and pride.

Sir Mercury, now spoke aloud,
(But settled first his wings, and bow'd)
His message told, with godlike grace,
And beg'd their judgment on the case:
He added too, that Mrs. Tha.
Had not once smil'd since dawning day,
That Madam Mel. was still in tears,
And might be so, these twenty years,
Unless their poetships, could rule
Friend Roscius, still to play the fool:

145

He thought that Roscius should agree,
For sake of all stage poesy,
To act one more theatric session—
“Hermes you're right—I say, possession;”
Cried Shakespeare loud (and while he spoke,
No other bard the accents broke)
“Is all to perish then of mine,
“Must Shkespeare be no more divine?
“Tho' Fame may here her clarion blow,
“Pray who must manage it below?”
He said;—Elysium heard the sound,
And all its tenants throng'd around:
The story in a moment flew,
Till every bard the matter knew,
One told the tidings to another,
Till Sol himself was in a pother.

Elysium, reader, is a name,
Not only, for these sons of fame,
But, a fine place, by Jove ordain'd,
For all, who've figur'd, fought, or reign'd:

146

'Tis for the wise, the great, the fair,
And every constant lover's there:
It is, in short, for all the good,
When they have done with flesh and blood;
And yet, the beauty, when a ghost,
As once on earth, remains a toast;
Th' Elysians, to her charms pay court,
And amorous shadows round her sport:
The human shape, we sure retain,
Else, could sons know their sires again?
Now, strange as this may seem to you,
Æneas, found it vastly true,
Who (as Dan Virgil's legends shew)
Took, once, a pious trip below;
Walk'd round the heav'nly garden twice,
And own'd Anchises in a trice;
Made, without toil, th' important tour,
And got to earth within the hour.

The characters that Roscius play'd,
Were next assembled—to a shade.
Poor Benedict, began to stare:
And tho' 'tis odd how he got there

147

Macbeth, protested he was glad,
Roscius, too oft had made him mad,
His crimes so painted to the life,
As— Pritchard, us'd to paint his wife:
The pensive Hamlet, smote his breast,
And on poor Yorrick's shoulder press'd:
Even Drugger, seem'd to feel the blow,
But took a quid to ease his woe:
Othello, little seem'd to care,
And Jaffier, was not in despair:
Yet Royal Lear, sustain'd the stroke,
Tho' Barry,—at the bottom broke:
An hero of the Moorish race,
Had a new guest in his embrace:
Even Caiius Marcius, hail'd his friend,
And Pierre, was eager to attend;
Cato, to grieve, saw little cause;
Sheridan gives his senate laws;
But princely John, declin'd the head,
And wish'd, that Sheridan was dead,

148

Then dropt a tear, and hid his face,
As conscious still of his disgrace;
Ranger, with nectar almost mellow,
Swore Roscius was a pleasant fellow,
Then turning to unfriended Stephen,
Wish'd Ned and Davy both in heaven.

The multitude now talk'd so fast,
The matter was so like to last;
So little hope remain'd of hearing,
Sir Hermes, spread his wings for steering:
When Shakespeare, thus preferr'd a prayer,
To him who darts his rays from far.
“I feel, I feel the tempest brewing,
Dark o'er my stage impends the ruin.
Let me to earth a ramble take,
And I will expedition make;
Thou bearer of the brilliant bow,
This favour on thy bard bestow.”

Dear Shakespeare, thy request is odd,
Replied the silver-shafted god,

149

And yet I know not to deny—
Then here, good friend, said Mercury,
This winged cap I'll lend to thee,
A flying foot will do for me:
So short the way is to the king,
One might flit there with half a wing.

Consent thus gain'd, and full in feather,
The bard and Hermes, flew together.

As friendly towards earth they went,
To learn what these strange tidings meant,
They freely chatted on the road,
And Shakespeare thus bespoke the god.

Hermes, no toil that man engages;
Not making verses to make pages;
Not all the logic of the laws,
Nor knot, that ties the gordian cause;
Not all the navigator's art,
Nor even the warrior's wily part;
Not methodistical devotion,
Nor secret of perpetual motion;

150

Not the dull road to classic knowledge,
Nor hum-drum labours of a college;
Not the fierce spirit of debate,
That works the whirligig of state;
Nor jarring jargon of physician,
Not science of geometrician;
Not fluctions, fractions, or finance,
Not both on heel and head to dance;
Not Coptic, Algebra, or Erse,
Not dignity without a purse;
Nor ought on earth such talents ask,
Such powers, as the theatric task;
At once, to move and mend the heart,
A master of the Thespian art;
For even I, with all my boast,
Was deem'd unfit to make a ghost;
Yet Hermes, I could scribble things,
As easy, as you work your wings;
Could very decent dukes create,
And make a minister of state;
Dubb one a lord, a second sir,
And half complete a character,

151

Sooner than get that phantom's talk,
Or e'en be perfect in my stalk:
It is not acting, to rehearse,
Some hundred lines of florid verse;
It is not comedy, to frisk,
To trip, to titter, and look brisk;
The wood and wire, can dance and caper,
A very mountebank can vapour.
It is not tragedy, to roar,
And flounce the body on the floor;
Then to spring upward with a bound,
And cast the goggling eyeballs round;
To writhe the joints, or shake the head,
Then quiver, and burlesque the dead;
It is not tragedy, to pout,
Or, in a fume to jump about;
To slap the forehead, thump the chest,
And screw the face to seem distrest;
Nor sweat an hour upon the stage,
Or twich the mantle in a rage,
Hence I infer, my worthy friend,
Nature peculiar gifts must lend;

152

And after all her favours, Care,
And Industry, must make the player.”
Quoth Mercury, “my noble poet,
You're a great man, and often shew it;
But now you miss the matter quite:
Since you, dear Will, began to write,
Affairs have had a modern turn,
Actors have little now to learn,
The duce a difficulty in it,
The hocus-pocus of a minute;
For now the folks who teach to speak,
Dispatch a dozen in a week.
Roscius indeed, and three or four,
(Haply thro' Britain half a score)
The subject, make a serious science;
The rest, to study bid defiance.
Who now is to the stage inclin'd,
Tells to Sir Manager his mind;
“To be, or not to be” rehearses,
And tries his compass in the curses;
His bosom beats with tragic rage,
And so he jumps upon the stage:

153

Tho' scarcely half made up he's hurl'd
Into this strange and breathing world;
Since he must get the words by heart,
A time he takes to con his part,
Then at the glass an hour employs,
And scares the landlady with noise;
Then, all in rubric capitals,
Resplendent flames along the walls:
At every corner of the street,
The new young gentleman, you meet;
And that he may the better bellow,
Sometimes he chooses your Othello;
Changes his face to Moorish black,
Or else, a bunch upon his back—
He aims at grin, and glare, and posture,
And takes a tug at Master Gloster:
At length, upon a solemn night,
The hero, is to fume, and fight;
In Romish triumph, lo! he comes,
And stalks, to the tattoo of drums;
He never play'd the king, before,
O may he never play it more!

154

Observe him the succeeding eve,
With a vile livery on his sleeve:
Sunk to the servant's lowest place,
Yet mean enough to bear disgrace.
But if his lungs the task sustain,
He plays the character again;
The strange attraction casts around,
And works his way by dint of sound:
The papers circulate the puff,
He is a diamond in the rough;
And by the force of mighty jaws,
He storms the castle of applause;
Now with success quite feverish grown,
He'll have a playhouse of his own;
The manager and actor join,
And then he fills the hero's line;
Afar he travels on the hoof:
His theatre without a roof:
In a vile barn, he butchers Lear,
And stabbs in booths, the noble Pierre:
But ev'n if all his toils succeed,
Prithee, dear William, mark the meed:

155

Full oft he bustles all the night,
Yet scarcely gets a supper by't;
On thy fine thoughts he feeds by day,
The famish'd sovereign—of a play;
The vagrant hut, rewards his pains,
And the world frowns upon his gains:
Not pedlar, gipsey, jesuit,
Not ballad-wenches, in the street;
Not base buffoon on scaffolding;
Not bullock baited at the ring;
Nor beggar dieting at door;
Nor the chance children of the poor;
A lot so hard”—I prithee stop;
Return'd the bard—the subject drop,
For if their private life be good,
Blest they may be, whate'er their food.
“The ship boy on the giddy mast,”—
My worthy Billy, not so fast,
Said Maia's son—Philosophy
Is a fine thing, when plenty's nigh;
As to their goodness, I profess,
They are the types of holiness;

156

Tho' often passing to and fro,
I hear no trips, where'er I go;
So much to deal in sentiment,
Inspires pure love, esteem, content,
Tho' grocers will their figs neglect,
Actors, will noble thoughts respect;
And hence it is, the real player,
Will live on virtue and the air:
To no one ill is he inclin'd,
Unspotted both in form and mind.
To do the ladies right, their dress,
E'en in a morn, is cleanliness,
So spruce, you at a glance would swear,
In every pin you saw the player:
With rumpled cap, and towzled head,
They never breakfast on the bed,
But, as at night, they love parade,
At day, each fair shall match a maid.

Here Hermes paus'd, and wink'd his eye,
Wherefore, friend Mercury, so sly,
Rejoin'd the poet—in these days,
Actors, I hear, get pence, and praise;

157

Fashion it seems, hath chang'd her plan,
Town-player, is a gentleman.
And surely men of art and sense,
Have justly to the name pretence;
But, soft I scent the city smoak,
So prithee, Hermes, spare thy joke,
And if thou lov'st me, quickly say,
Should Roscius go, who's left to play?
For, since I've been a ghost, my friend,
I little to such points attend.

'Tis long, quoth Hermes, Sir, since I,
To either house, have had a fly;
There's little call for you or me.
The news you'll hear from Pomine:
For, ah dear Will, a-lack a day!
'Tis all to sing, and nought to say!
Opera, my friend, that mongril elf,
Has thrown your Lordship on the shelf:
In vain you growl forth, list, oh, list,
Your favourite phantom is not mist;

158

And when the mob resign their ghost,
Judge how much footing you have lost:
Uncall'd, old Barry limps about,
Gets a long sabbath for his gout;
And 'tis with much ado, I hear,
His wife can draw one tragic tear:
Methinks the age is operatiz'd:
Sweet Willy—you seem much surpriz'd;
Hermes stopt short—the poet frown'd,
And tore the bays his temples bound;
The chaplet thrice, indignant, shook;
Tost it in air, then angry spoke:
“Roscius resign'd! why had he stay'd,
I would rush forward, to upbraid—
Oh had I known, what Shakespeare wrote
Would fly before the Eunuch's note,
By yonder—but I will not swear,
Why didst thou lead me on so far?
Hermes your hand—dear friend, adieu.”
He turn'd about, and backward flew.

159

The God of errands, left alone,
Now bent his course towards Helicon.
Told every Muse th' appeal was vain,
And, in a huff, sought heaven again.

THE END.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Who in his life-time absurdly affected to despise a literary reputation.

The excellence of Mrs. Siddons, a genius in strong competition with that of Mr. Garrick, was not then known to the stage.

And now, with equal power, Mrs. Siddons.

Zanga.

The late Mr. Mossop.

A name given to Coriolianus, whose character was finely represented by Mr. Mossop.

Amongst the best perform'd parts of Mr. Shuter.