 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
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THE ART OF RISING ON THE STAGE.
A POEM.
CANTO I.
To grace the elbow chair of age,Roscius the Monarch of the Stage,
Resolv'd to lay the sceptre down,
And make his exit from the town.
His purpose fix'd, he summon'd strait,
The Lords and Commons of his State,
A motley tribe as you shall see;
The Theatre's variety;
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He summon'd them, exact at nine,
Exact at nine, the parties came,
Some known to Famine, some to Fame.
In the same room, for once, they met;
The tragic ladies, took their seat:
The little lords, were on the scout
And fairly wish'd themselves without:
The gentlemen, stroll'd here and there
Till Roscius came, and took the chair:
He stood, in attitude profound,
And thus address'd the circle round.
Princesses, Potentates, and Peers,
Behold me in the vale of years:
My friends and favourites adieu,
Lo I am come, to part with you.
Full forty years, in various places,
Have I, alas, been making faces:
During which time, as ye can tell,
Much have I talk'd of heaven, and hell;
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And often broke my pliant heart;
Imaginary crimes committed,
Been hated, scorn'd, admir'd, and pitied:
My father strangled, kill'd my brother,
And play'd the devil with my mother;
To day a fool, to-morrow wiser,
A monarch, manager, and miser.
How oft ye powers this hand has press'd,
In mimic agony, my breast;
How oft I've died with pleasing pain,
How oftne have I “slew the slain;”
How oft the hated tyrant play'd,
And kill my man, and kiss'd my maid.
Not Sir John Hill, so much has wrote,
As I have spoken through my throat;
Hard fate, my friends, thus to rehearse
Each year, a waggon load of verse;
We, when the bard has lost his gift,
Have kindly given the man a lift,
When weighty matters poets cobble,
And their gall'd jades begin to hobble,
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And makes them seem both sound and fleet;
This have I done—with your assistance,—
Tho' sometimes, have scarce sav'd my distance:
Bards, now a days, would lose the race,
If players did not mend their pace,
So apt their hackneys are to trip,
That did we not work spur and whip,
Scarce is there one among them all,
But woud, ere course the second, fall;
To tell you then my serious wish,
I'm tir'd of this dramatic dish,
Farewel, a long farewel to verse,
Hail honest prose, hail honest purse;
I'm on the edges of threescore,
'Tis time to give the plaything o'er;
I need not counterfeit a wrinkle!
Behold—it strikes you in a twinkle!
The step of sixty, as I stir
Ye see, ah me! 'tis angular!
Age is unfit for rant and riot,
Now determine to be quiet;
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But choose henceforth the private way:
Nay, my good friends, you need not stare,
By yonder blessed moon I swear!
As actor, manager, and poet,
“I've done some service, and ye know it:”
I've had my struggles, like the moor,
A time there was, when I was poor:
Now farewel hair-breadth 'scapes, and slavings,
Hail—hail—thrice hail, my little savings:
I never coveted such stuff,
Put shall retire, with just enough
To line my evening couch with down,
And keep my cottage out of town,
My homely Hampton hut I mean,
Altho' a plain, a pleasant scene;
These palaces ill suit with age,
Mine is the season to be sage;
And that the modest reason, why
I lay this bustling business by:
Altho' of players, I am king,
The fearful hour is on the wing
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Lay our mock royalties in dust;
An awful part remains to act,
The baseless vision yields to fact:
Such is my purpose, such my plan;
No more the actor, but the man.
Then friends farewel, but ere I quit
These well known scenes of sense and wit;
These ever-honour'd, sacred boards,
Where such a levee grand, of lords,
Where Kings and queens so oft have stood,
And died—with little loss of blood;
Where conquerors of every clime,
Have, night by night, harangued in rhime;
And, by the aid of good blank verse,
Stout heroes, have improved their curse:
Where dukes, of every sort and size,
Have complimented ladies eyes;
Where chiefs, have fought their country's cause,
And statesmen made, and unmade laws;
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Or stabb'd the form, to save the soul;
Where virgins, rather than submit,
Their pretty panting hearts have hit;
Where all of us, have had our blows,
Our sieges, battles, joys, and woes;
My eyes will linger to this spot,
Till you my last advice, have got.
The actors is a dangerous trade,
Take then a recipe I've made,
Twill move the soul, and mend each feature,
I'm told, there's not the like in nature,
And as a proof, 'twill bear the test,
Me, it hath made—Probatum est.
Take first a well-siz'd Looking-Glass,
“And view your shadows as you pass:”
Manage each motion of the eye,
And learn, at will, to laugh and cry,
Observe to step, and start, with grace,
And call up meaning, in the face:
Walk not too narrow, nor too wide,
'Tis like Sir Punch, to strut and stride:
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Pray ladies, copy Abington.
Observe the breeding in her air,
There's nothing of the actress there:
Assume her fashion if you can;
And catch the graces of her fan.
Learn in her mirror, how to stare,
To smile in joy, to droop in care:
With ease, “to catch the cloud, and in it
“Paint the fair Cynthia of the minute :”
Change passions with the changing scene,
And methodise like her your mien,
In drawing off her glove, you'll see,
She has been used to company.
Pray heroes never pause too long,
A trick I got, when I was young,
A trick, my enemies have told,
But habits, seldom leave the old.
The glass may teach, to bow and kneel,
But heaven alone can make you feel:
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Yet art can make a shift you know;
I've found it frequently supply,
The want of sensibility.
But oh, 'twill take up all your leisure,
Ere of such toil you make a pleasure;
For where dame Nature is unkind,
And scarcely half makes up the mind;
While Fortune, like a scurvy jade,
Tosses that mind, upon our trade,
It follows, as a clear effect,
That notwithstanding such neglect,
If Nature will not do her part,
The business must be done by art.
In stage-affairs, as in a watch,
There's many a wheel, and many a catch,
In both the mechanism's fine,
Your lookers-on, can ne'er divine,
What a mere juggle 'tis to play;
And yet this juggle does, I say.
Who only views the watch's face,
Conceive not what's within the case;
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And bids Sue roast the mutton well,
The fine machinery they miss;
As 'tis in that, so 'tis in this.
I would not have you then despair,
Tho' Nature, should her blessing spare,
Tho' some of you should feel no more,
Than Dunstan's giants o'er church door:
Sheer art, may move a man about,
Pray who's to find the secret out?
Take heed, 'twill seem all skill and knowledge,
Might pose the fellow of a college.
Have you not seen, in Lear, and Fool,
Where players often rave by rule,
The calling out—a mouse, a mouse,
Has fairly taken in, the house.
If well the changeling throws his hat,
Make sure of your applause for that:
One minute marks a start, at most,
But, if on entrance of a ghost,
You stamp but loud enough, and fix,
Instead of one, you may take six:
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With dext'rous dash of hand, or thumb,
You caus'd the hair, to stand an end;
As that would much the horror mend:
When Hamlet's phantom you pursue,
Gaze, as if every lamp burnt blue:
But when its errand you would know,
Take care, to stagger as you go:
Then, as it waves you, not to vex it,
Let the sword tremble in your exit.
To make King Richard, there's a knack;
Be perfect, in the leg, and back;
The eyebrow, should be broad and dark:
And give to murder, every mark
His fell complottings and designs,
Should startle in the face's lines;
Give him the dark assassin's airs
And catch the audience unawares.
Much, much, dear folks, depends on dress;
The seemly ruff of royal Bess,
The flourish, when she gives the blow,
The royal train, and furbelow,
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The straw-made crown of crazy Lear,
Othello's face, Ophelia's willow,
And Desdemona's strangling pillow:
Your hose, ye fair, when boys you play,
White chins, when age is in decay,
Fat Falstaff's shield, and mountain belly,
Are half the battle, let me tell ye:
If once the galleries give the hand,
A fig, for those that understand,
The men of taste you know, are rare,
The boxes seldom heed the player:
The critic's hiss at classic flaws,
Is buried in the fool's applause.
Is genius wanting?—trust to trick,
It is the actor's walking-stick:
There are, who use it every year:
Tho' none of my good people here.
Where there is genius—in such cases,
The passions know their proper places;
Just where they ought, behold them rise,
Or flow in tears, or heave in sighs:
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And mighty nature stands confest:
What, therefore, I remark'd, at first,
Was putting matters at the worst;
As providence bestow'd the power,
I ne'er could bear finesse an hour:
My Archer, is your comic sample,
And Lear affords a grave example.
Of other points, there are a few,
That I will now reveal to you.
And first, it would not be amiss,
But here and there prevent a hiss,
If some of you would condescend
A certain careless air to mend;
'Tis villainous to search the pit,
To find where your admirers sit.
Nor is it well, to stare on high,
Intriguing with the gallery:
Or to the boxes, give your eyes,
While on the stage a lady sighs:
Believe me, there is much to play,
Ev'n when you have no more to say:
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Will, saucy, turn upon their breech;
Never conclude your business past,
Till act the fifth, and line the last.
Oft have I been the friend in danger,
When him I lov'd, stood like a stranger;
And tho' next scene I was to die,
By draught, or dart, or sympathy:
The fellow was so lost to feeling,
I might as well have hugg'd the ceiling;
One of his hands, indeed, was near
To take my tributary tear;
While eyes and lips were making love,
And set to trap the nymphs above.
Sure, gentlemen, you'll grant me this:
A time to act, a time to kiss;
Refrain but till the curtain's down,
Then Ranger-it thro' all the town.
Where kissing, is so much in use,
The modern stage, is no way slack,
In granting ye an honest smack:
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Where poets do not shew the way;
We've scarce a scene of tragic bliss,
But they have introduc'd a kiss,
And when a heroine's at her gasp,
She always gives a loving clasp;
Or if a comedy's their forte,
There's always something of that sort.
The drama now, however chaste,
In tender matters, near the waist;
Tho' they run round and round the riddle,
Girding a cestus 'bout the middle:
Yet all who deal in deaths and faintings,
Our dapsters at dramatic paintings,
However artfully, each draws
O'er sacred parts the virtuous gauze:
There's none so churlish to dispute,
The players right to a salute.
It now remains, ere I go hence,
To thank you, for your diligence.
Sickness, 'tis true, will oft disable:
Pretended sickness, is a fable;
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I Nature blame for every miss;
At Duty's call you all would come,
But—that you could not get from home:
Nay you'd have ventur'd in a chair,
Had you not fear'd—the evening air.
I know a lady's resolution,
But who can help her constitution?
And had you left your hoods and screens,
You might have died behind the scenes.
I credit not the idle tale,
“He is not sick, she does not ail,”
I've seldom pry'd for your complaint,
Convinc'd, you were above a feint,
But sure, of your indisposition,
Have kindly sent you my physician.
Some may have had it much at heart,
Because they did not like a part.
Some fair ones have been apt to quarrel,
And could not fancy their apparel:
It seems I've too much trimm'd a train,
When 'twould have prettier look'd, if plain:
I have not always pleas'd my beaux
In the division of the cloaths:
I have given gold, for silver lace,
And sometimes suited ill, a face:
Complexions differ, and stage dresses,
Should always match the skin and tresses:
But far from me the blame may pass,
The fault was in—the Looking-Glass:
Ladies, indeed it told not truth,
Whate'er you wore improv'd your youth;
And when you were displeas'd with me,
I help'd to dress a deity.
Because they did not like a part.
Some fair ones have been apt to quarrel,
And could not fancy their apparel:
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When 'twould have prettier look'd, if plain:
I have not always pleas'd my beaux
In the division of the cloaths:
I have given gold, for silver lace,
And sometimes suited ill, a face:
Complexions differ, and stage dresses,
Should always match the skin and tresses:
But far from me the blame may pass,
The fault was in—the Looking-Glass:
Ladies, indeed it told not truth,
Whate'er you wore improv'd your youth;
And when you were displeas'd with me,
I help'd to dress a deity.
Perhaps, a word may be expected,
Of Bards, who think themselves neglected.
It is no easy task, to rule
The scribbling tribe, and every fool,
Who pelts a man with manuscripts,
And crowds on him, mishapen slips;
Things, half begot, and born in pain,
The very Fœtus of the brain.
Some of you know, my window-seat;
The piles of paper, there you meet,
Are but the bastards of the day,
From trash, that spawn a mushroom play:
Abortions, sprung from parents poor,
That lie—like foundlings—at my door:
In charity, I take them up,
Altho' not worth my caudle-cup:
The sire, without dramatic sap,
How can the son be rear'd by pap?
Yet all, I keep a decent time,
In ragged swatheing-cloths of rhime:
Then, beg the fathers to attend
And—take them to another friend.
Of Bards, who think themselves neglected.
It is no easy task, to rule
The scribbling tribe, and every fool,
Who pelts a man with manuscripts,
And crowds on him, mishapen slips;
Things, half begot, and born in pain,
The very Fœtus of the brain.
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The piles of paper, there you meet,
Are but the bastards of the day,
From trash, that spawn a mushroom play:
Abortions, sprung from parents poor,
That lie—like foundlings—at my door:
In charity, I take them up,
Altho' not worth my caudle-cup:
The sire, without dramatic sap,
How can the son be rear'd by pap?
Yet all, I keep a decent time,
In ragged swatheing-cloths of rhime:
Then, beg the fathers to attend
And—take them to another friend.
I'm charg'd, with scorning babes of wit,
A charge, for which I've answer fit.
A charge, for which I've answer fit.
Extract a moral, from a tale:
A grazier, once had steers for sale;
Horses just broke, and heifers grown,
Pigs, calves, and other kine, his own;
To market, as he went one day,
A neighbour stopp'd him on the way.
Dobson, said he, as you know well,
Both how to buy, and how to sell,
As I, to-day, must watch the house,
(For mother midwife's with my spouse)
'Twill be a kindness, Dob. if you,
Will bargain for my oxen too:
None better knows when beasts are fat,
You are a judge—I must say that.
The grazier, from pure love to John,
Jog'd with the cattle gently on.
A mile beyond, one Thomas Staver,
Beg'd, with a smile, an equal favour,
Talk'd of lameness in his legs,
And press'd upon him all his eggs:
It was not Dob's denying day,
So, with his load, he trudg'd away.
But just as if 'twas ne'er to end,
Hard by, he saw a female friend:
She too, had met a bad disaster,
For which repose would prove a plaister:
How much, she said, would he oblige,
If he would take her Friday's cheese?
The grazier, though almost weigh'd down
Agreed, and toiling, went to town.
And now, came on, our grazier's care;
'Twas sultry noon when he got there.
Off went his horses, to his mind,
His heifers, did not stay behind:
His lambkins, bore a market price,
His hogs, found buyers in a trice.
The market then was at a stand;
His neighbours' goods, remain in hand,
He scarcely sold an egg an hour,
And night at last began to lower:
Longer to stay, would be in vain,
And so he drove them back again.
The man with the rheumatic legs,
Who was the owner of the eggs,
The swain, who sent the oxen too,
Now on our luckless grazier flew;
They tore his coat, they bruis'd his eye
He was at last, compell'd to fly.
Yet, how was the poor man to blame,
He would have sold, if buyers came:
He could not force the beef, or cheese,
The town was full of purchases;
The moral, is worth every other,
Serve first yourself, and then a brother;
To serve a brother first, is right,
Provided self gets double by't:
But mind that you get pleasure too,
That sanctifies whate'er you do:
'Tis past dispute, and stands reveal'd
By men of note—see, Chesterfield;
Authority we have no better,
It is the sense of every Letter.
For that it was, I sav'd my gold,
For that I bought, for that I sold.
My friends, I have no more to say,
A grazier, once had steers for sale;
Horses just broke, and heifers grown,
Pigs, calves, and other kine, his own;
To market, as he went one day,
A neighbour stopp'd him on the way.
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Both how to buy, and how to sell,
As I, to-day, must watch the house,
(For mother midwife's with my spouse)
'Twill be a kindness, Dob. if you,
Will bargain for my oxen too:
None better knows when beasts are fat,
You are a judge—I must say that.
The grazier, from pure love to John,
Jog'd with the cattle gently on.
A mile beyond, one Thomas Staver,
Beg'd, with a smile, an equal favour,
Talk'd of lameness in his legs,
And press'd upon him all his eggs:
It was not Dob's denying day,
So, with his load, he trudg'd away.
But just as if 'twas ne'er to end,
Hard by, he saw a female friend:
She too, had met a bad disaster,
For which repose would prove a plaister:
How much, she said, would he oblige,
If he would take her Friday's cheese?
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Agreed, and toiling, went to town.
And now, came on, our grazier's care;
'Twas sultry noon when he got there.
Off went his horses, to his mind,
His heifers, did not stay behind:
His lambkins, bore a market price,
His hogs, found buyers in a trice.
The market then was at a stand;
His neighbours' goods, remain in hand,
He scarcely sold an egg an hour,
And night at last began to lower:
Longer to stay, would be in vain,
And so he drove them back again.
The man with the rheumatic legs,
Who was the owner of the eggs,
The swain, who sent the oxen too,
Now on our luckless grazier flew;
They tore his coat, they bruis'd his eye
He was at last, compell'd to fly.
Yet, how was the poor man to blame,
He would have sold, if buyers came:
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The town was full of purchases;
The moral, is worth every other,
Serve first yourself, and then a brother;
To serve a brother first, is right,
Provided self gets double by't:
But mind that you get pleasure too,
That sanctifies whate'er you do:
'Tis past dispute, and stands reveal'd
By men of note—see, Chesterfield;
Authority we have no better,
It is the sense of every Letter.
For that it was, I sav'd my gold,
For that I bought, for that I sold.
I wish you long to live, and play:
And when, like me, you've sav'd a pittance,
Make your last bows, and cry, acquittance.”
The Green-room, echoed approbation,
And thus broke up the Convocation.
END OF THE FIRST CANTO.
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CANTO II.
When mighty revolutions come,
Shrill sounds the trump, loud beats the drum,
I speak, by trope—conceive me right,
Not drums, made use of in the fight:
But those more general alarms,
That summon kingdoms up to arms—
Again I strike on metaphor,
These things in rhiming will occur;
Sure as guns pop by pulling trigger,
Pen but a verse, off goes a figure.
Altho' our greatest merits lie,
Far from such quaint embroidery,
True 'tis, that young poetic sinners,
Who at the trade, are but beginners,
Find it extremely hard to rein
The ideas of the buxom brain:
When spirits boil, and fancy rages,
What glare and gew-gaw gild the pages!
For Fancy then is in her prime,
And sweetest sings in summer-time;
Then full in feather and in song,
Like birds she warbles all day long.
And hence the stripling poet goes
To compliment the blooming rose,
Pours forth his tuneful soul in love,
Bedecks the garden, grot, and grove,
Scorns to see things, like other men,
But, with an alchemy of pen,
Hies to the shepherd's fleecy fold,
And turns the greasy wool to gold:
Hath posied words for every flower,
First makes, and then describes his bower.
Meet such a bardling in your walk,
Perchance you find him, deep in talk:
Or 'neath the branches, with a book;
Or listening to a lazy brook;
Prosemen, dull wights, would deem him mad,
But Fancy calls him sweetly sad;
Reason pronounces lost in folly;
This darling child of Melancholy,
For what plain people call a bird,
Poets have clear another word:
A plumy songster, feather'd friend,
If proper name, an a at end,
Not bullfinch, greenfich, goldfinch, chaf,
A more mellifluous sound by half,
'Tis not the vulgar nightingale,
But Philomela, tells the tale;
'Tis not the linnet gives its note,
But Lillinetta pours her throat:
What dull folks call the beetle's flight,
Bards call the messenger of night:
And when the day is gone to bed,
On Thetis' lap he lays his head,
The poet's eye can see him swim,
And tinge with gold the ocean's brim:
Then, that which mortals call the dawn
Is open'd, by the ruddy morn:
And certain streaks of rising red
Mark where her rosy fingers spread,
Lambs, are the types of innocence;
Lillies, and snow, dispute that sense;
Nay every leaf, on every tree,
Affords the bard, a simile:
And every tender bud, that blows,
An epithet, or thought bestows.
Alliteration too is nigh,
A hand-maid hir'd by poesy:
In uniform to dress her fine,
And liquidate the lovely line,
Bid fountains flow, and branches bend,
Rocks rugged rise, and dews descend,
Cold caterachs crash, and rivers rumble,
Great Gorgans glare, and Giants grumble;
Now, some may think—Jove help their heads!
It is mere dust a mortal treads,
I cannot pity such, enough,
We authors, know 'tis no such stuff:
The velvet carpet Nature gives,
She offers it, and man receives:
Wish we to change the phrase again,
'Tis the green mantle of the plain;
'Tis Heaven's own livery, silken sod,
But, by no means a kneaded clod:
'Tis tissue, wove by hands divine,
'Tis all that's fair, and all that's fine.
Shrill sounds the trump, loud beats the drum,
I speak, by trope—conceive me right,
Not drums, made use of in the fight:
But those more general alarms,
That summon kingdoms up to arms—
Again I strike on metaphor,
These things in rhiming will occur;
Sure as guns pop by pulling trigger,
Pen but a verse, off goes a figure.
Altho' our greatest merits lie,
Far from such quaint embroidery,
True 'tis, that young poetic sinners,
Who at the trade, are but beginners,
117
The ideas of the buxom brain:
When spirits boil, and fancy rages,
What glare and gew-gaw gild the pages!
For Fancy then is in her prime,
And sweetest sings in summer-time;
Then full in feather and in song,
Like birds she warbles all day long.
And hence the stripling poet goes
To compliment the blooming rose,
Pours forth his tuneful soul in love,
Bedecks the garden, grot, and grove,
Scorns to see things, like other men,
But, with an alchemy of pen,
Hies to the shepherd's fleecy fold,
And turns the greasy wool to gold:
Hath posied words for every flower,
First makes, and then describes his bower.
Meet such a bardling in your walk,
Perchance you find him, deep in talk:
Or 'neath the branches, with a book;
Or listening to a lazy brook;
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But Fancy calls him sweetly sad;
Reason pronounces lost in folly;
This darling child of Melancholy,
For what plain people call a bird,
Poets have clear another word:
A plumy songster, feather'd friend,
If proper name, an a at end,
Not bullfinch, greenfich, goldfinch, chaf,
A more mellifluous sound by half,
'Tis not the vulgar nightingale,
But Philomela, tells the tale;
'Tis not the linnet gives its note,
But Lillinetta pours her throat:
What dull folks call the beetle's flight,
Bards call the messenger of night:
And when the day is gone to bed,
On Thetis' lap he lays his head,
The poet's eye can see him swim,
And tinge with gold the ocean's brim:
Then, that which mortals call the dawn
Is open'd, by the ruddy morn:
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Mark where her rosy fingers spread,
Lambs, are the types of innocence;
Lillies, and snow, dispute that sense;
Nay every leaf, on every tree,
Affords the bard, a simile:
And every tender bud, that blows,
An epithet, or thought bestows.
Alliteration too is nigh,
A hand-maid hir'd by poesy:
In uniform to dress her fine,
And liquidate the lovely line,
Bid fountains flow, and branches bend,
Rocks rugged rise, and dews descend,
Cold caterachs crash, and rivers rumble,
Great Gorgans glare, and Giants grumble;
Now, some may think—Jove help their heads!
It is mere dust a mortal treads,
I cannot pity such, enough,
We authors, know 'tis no such stuff:
The velvet carpet Nature gives,
She offers it, and man receives:
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'Tis the green mantle of the plain;
'Tis Heaven's own livery, silken sod,
But, by no means a kneaded clod:
'Tis tissue, wove by hands divine,
'Tis all that's fair, and all that's fine.
But to proceed—henceforth my muse,
Grown grave, shall modest edging choose:
The fairy days of verse are o'er,
Content with sense, she dares not soar:
Such freaks she leaves to youngsters green,
The pretty sportings of eighteen;
But the sage muse who scribbles this,
Is now no more a tripping miss;
The fever of her fancy cool,
She rhimes and reasons all by rule.
Grown grave, shall modest edging choose:
The fairy days of verse are o'er,
Content with sense, she dares not soar:
Such freaks she leaves to youngsters green,
The pretty sportings of eighteen;
But the sage muse who scribbles this,
Is now no more a tripping miss;
The fever of her fancy cool,
She rhimes and reasons all by rule.
The morning registers of fame,
Soon set the city in a flame:
A favourite player to retire,
Is worse than the alarm of fire:
The ignis fatuus of the stage,
Runs ripe and rapid through our age:
And though two mighty nations wait,
Upon the councils of the state;
Yet like true patriots at the heart,
We look when Roscius plays a part:
Whate'er's theatrical devour,
And give to him, th' eventful hour.
The papers told, that he resign'd;
At this you guess the public mind:
Hang all the folks across the main,
So Roscius, would but act again.
Next day, the matter was averr'd;
Certain the patent was transferr'd;
Song, sonnet, ditty, sought the press,
And half the town was in distress.
The matter scarce abroad had flown,
Ere it arriv'd at Helicon;
Swift to the muses' laurell'd court,
A poet went to make report;
For poets, be it noted, go,
On such affairs, incognito:
And tho' to sceptics, it seem odd,
In point of speed, shall match a god:
They stride not, ordinary horse,
One Pegasus, performs the course:
A beast that traverses the air,
More fleet than your Arabian mare:
Thus poets get to Hypocrene,
Ere Sunday cits to Turnham Green.
Phoebus allows the miracle,
And so they ride invisible,
Indeed the ponies of Parnass,
All other quadrupedes surpass;
The reason's evident, the mead
Is consecrated where they feed:
The best historians alledge,
There's something holy, in each hedge:
Cælestial herbage blooms around,
And not a thistle's in the ground:
A nettle here and there you find,
For steeds that are to wit inclin'd:
Even then, there's honey round the sting,
But for a weed there's no such thing.
In vain yon look for winter here,
'Tis June, rich June, throughout the year:
And hence 'tis said, the coursers' noses,
Are perfum'd with parnassian posies;
For, as the creatures stoop to graze,
They bite and fill the mouth with bays:
The fillies chiefly choose to eat
The primrose, pagle, violet,
Because this sort of food, it seems,
Inspires your pretty past'ral themes:
On jemmy, gentle feet they run,
And frisk, and frolic in the sun:
In short, the fields, are here so fine,
There's not a doubt but they're divine,
Such too, is their peculiar force,
A bard they dubb, ass, man, or horse:
Certain, as wings grace Hermes' cap,
Whoever eats and takes a nap,
Right good sufficient poets wake;
The better, if their thirst they slake
At Caballine the horses fountain;
Which lies on t'other side the mountain;
Some fearful fools, too tame to blunder,
Have set these objects, far asunder,
The river in Beotia placing,
And Phocis call the spot they graze in,
But poet real, mule or man,
Spurns at the critic's rigid plan:
And skips through kingdoms in a minute,
Think of a place—whew—pass—he's in it:
Your bards dramatical, shall run
And win the sweepstakes from the sun;
In waving of a goose's feather,
Shall draw the distant poles together;
On wings scarce fledg'd, with ease can fly
From Catharine street, to Castaly:
Then drop on fancy's neck the rein,
Dine in the Strand, and sup in Spain.
Soon set the city in a flame:
A favourite player to retire,
Is worse than the alarm of fire:
121
Runs ripe and rapid through our age:
And though two mighty nations wait,
Upon the councils of the state;
Yet like true patriots at the heart,
We look when Roscius plays a part:
Whate'er's theatrical devour,
And give to him, th' eventful hour.
The papers told, that he resign'd;
At this you guess the public mind:
Hang all the folks across the main,
So Roscius, would but act again.
Next day, the matter was averr'd;
Certain the patent was transferr'd;
Song, sonnet, ditty, sought the press,
And half the town was in distress.
The matter scarce abroad had flown,
Ere it arriv'd at Helicon;
Swift to the muses' laurell'd court,
A poet went to make report;
For poets, be it noted, go,
On such affairs, incognito:
122
In point of speed, shall match a god:
They stride not, ordinary horse,
One Pegasus, performs the course:
A beast that traverses the air,
More fleet than your Arabian mare:
Thus poets get to Hypocrene,
Ere Sunday cits to Turnham Green.
Phoebus allows the miracle,
And so they ride invisible,
Indeed the ponies of Parnass,
All other quadrupedes surpass;
The reason's evident, the mead
Is consecrated where they feed:
The best historians alledge,
There's something holy, in each hedge:
Cælestial herbage blooms around,
And not a thistle's in the ground:
A nettle here and there you find,
For steeds that are to wit inclin'd:
Even then, there's honey round the sting,
But for a weed there's no such thing.
123
'Tis June, rich June, throughout the year:
And hence 'tis said, the coursers' noses,
Are perfum'd with parnassian posies;
For, as the creatures stoop to graze,
They bite and fill the mouth with bays:
The fillies chiefly choose to eat
The primrose, pagle, violet,
Because this sort of food, it seems,
Inspires your pretty past'ral themes:
On jemmy, gentle feet they run,
And frisk, and frolic in the sun:
In short, the fields, are here so fine,
There's not a doubt but they're divine,
Such too, is their peculiar force,
A bard they dubb, ass, man, or horse:
Certain, as wings grace Hermes' cap,
Whoever eats and takes a nap,
Right good sufficient poets wake;
The better, if their thirst they slake
At Caballine the horses fountain;
Which lies on t'other side the mountain;
124
Have set these objects, far asunder,
The river in Beotia placing,
And Phocis call the spot they graze in,
But poet real, mule or man,
Spurns at the critic's rigid plan:
And skips through kingdoms in a minute,
Think of a place—whew—pass—he's in it:
Your bards dramatical, shall run
And win the sweepstakes from the sun;
In waving of a goose's feather,
Shall draw the distant poles together;
On wings scarce fledg'd, with ease can fly
From Catharine street, to Castaly:
Then drop on fancy's neck the rein,
Dine in the Strand, and sup in Spain.
These points premis'd, we will not fail,
To see who went to tell the tale,
Trust me, there was no less than seven,
Now made a vig'rous push for heaven:
Dan Roscius rang'd them in a row;
And every one desired to go:
Their coursers you'll suppose were there,
Pawing, to gallop through the air:
Reader you'll note, that heaven's a phrase,
We, authors, use in different ways,
The skies above, lay constant claim,
With Helicon to that blest name:
Nay what will startle most I know,
We give it to the shades below:
In short sirs, every place of rest,
Is heaven, because it suits us best;
So, whatsoever's bad or bitter,
Is hell, to make our sense compleater,
This licence, chiefly marks our charter,
So wonder not, at what comes a'ter;
In rhime like this, the bard's allow'd
A privilege deny'd the crowd;
A letter we ne'er mind a pin,
But cast it out or keep it in,
Odd syllables we cut and clip,
And half a word with ease o'erskip;
So, that at top we put our dashes,
The critic heeds not, such small slashes:
This right did Butler first ordain,
And Swift confirm'd the act again:
Dan Prior sign'd it with his hand,
And spread the licence through the land;
Since these so often par'd the line,
There's none will cavil sure, at mine:
Say, I clip oft'ner, I'm the less;
So to return e're I digress.
To see who went to tell the tale,
Trust me, there was no less than seven,
Now made a vig'rous push for heaven:
Dan Roscius rang'd them in a row;
And every one desired to go:
125
Pawing, to gallop through the air:
Reader you'll note, that heaven's a phrase,
We, authors, use in different ways,
The skies above, lay constant claim,
With Helicon to that blest name:
Nay what will startle most I know,
We give it to the shades below:
In short sirs, every place of rest,
Is heaven, because it suits us best;
So, whatsoever's bad or bitter,
Is hell, to make our sense compleater,
This licence, chiefly marks our charter,
So wonder not, at what comes a'ter;
In rhime like this, the bard's allow'd
A privilege deny'd the crowd;
A letter we ne'er mind a pin,
But cast it out or keep it in,
Odd syllables we cut and clip,
And half a word with ease o'erskip;
So, that at top we put our dashes,
The critic heeds not, such small slashes:
126
And Swift confirm'd the act again:
Dan Prior sign'd it with his hand,
And spread the licence through the land;
Since these so often par'd the line,
There's none will cavil sure, at mine:
Say, I clip oft'ner, I'm the less;
So to return e're I digress.
The four first candidates were such,
Who writing little, write too much,
Your men of Farce and Interlude;
Who vex the town with trifles crude;
Who with their tiny pop-guns play,
And pelt the folly of the day:
Slaves whom the manager employs,
To keep the galleries from noise.
When tragic heroines, in disguise,
Are now no more to cheat the eyes:
When she, who lately seem'd a brother,
In scene the next, turns out a mother:
When passions are no more at strife,
And the poor cuckold owns his wife:
Till she puts on her woman weeds,
'Tis certain that a pause succeeds,
And, as it takes both time and pain
To make a boy a girl again;
'Tis decent,—poets use finesse,
That each fair lady may undress;
Hence Rosius, being politic,
Engages those same sons of trick;
A tribe of low dramatic hacks,
To fill the space, between the acts.
Their sense and taste, were nearly even,
But all unfit, alas, for heaven.
Who writing little, write too much,
Your men of Farce and Interlude;
Who vex the town with trifles crude;
Who with their tiny pop-guns play,
And pelt the folly of the day:
Slaves whom the manager employs,
To keep the galleries from noise.
When tragic heroines, in disguise,
Are now no more to cheat the eyes:
When she, who lately seem'd a brother,
In scene the next, turns out a mother:
When passions are no more at strife,
And the poor cuckold owns his wife:
127
'Tis certain that a pause succeeds,
And, as it takes both time and pain
To make a boy a girl again;
'Tis decent,—poets use finesse,
That each fair lady may undress;
Hence Rosius, being politic,
Engages those same sons of trick;
A tribe of low dramatic hacks,
To fill the space, between the acts.
Their sense and taste, were nearly even,
But all unfit, alas, for heaven.
On these accounts he call'd a crony,
Who kept a very pretty poney:
A thing of fashion, brisk, and neat,
And swift of foot, altho' petite:
Well he maintain'd a poet's cause,
A stickler stout, for critic laws:
The steed was little but not lazy,
The rider dapper as a daisy.
With fairy step, together, they,
Had tripp'd to Paris for a play;
Thither, each year, the pair would prance,
To catch the comedy of France.
Him, Roscius, deem'd a proper bard,
To carry off the message-card:
“Then mount, dear George, said he, your steed
And hither come again with speed.”
Who kept a very pretty poney:
A thing of fashion, brisk, and neat,
And swift of foot, altho' petite:
Well he maintain'd a poet's cause,
A stickler stout, for critic laws:
The steed was little but not lazy,
The rider dapper as a daisy.
With fairy step, together, they,
Had tripp'd to Paris for a play;
128
To catch the comedy of France.
Him, Roscius, deem'd a proper bard,
To carry off the message-card:
“Then mount, dear George, said he, your steed
And hither come again with speed.”
Altho' our poet did not race,
He deftly went a decent pace:
And those who take long journeys, know
Your even riders, fastest go;
Thus, though he did not stretch and tear;
He canter'd regularly there.
For, though a dramatist and fleet,
His Pegasus, obey'd the bit.
Some bards, full cautious and exact,
Are sway'd by Aristotle's act,
Which doth provide in certain cases,
Strict laws concerning times and places:
To break through which, without just reason,
Is deem'd a literary treason:
And those who, with these laws comply,
Must reverence probability.
Restricted by the sage's plan,
Steadily went our little man:
At length arriv'd, he hail'd the spring,
Dismounted, and address'd the ring:
For as it chanc'd, the ladies nine,
Were, after dinner, quaffing wine:
A basket of ambrosia by,
Remain'd to tempt the stranger's eye;
Yet ere he laid a finger on,
He told them what he came upon.
He deftly went a decent pace:
And those who take long journeys, know
Your even riders, fastest go;
Thus, though he did not stretch and tear;
He canter'd regularly there.
For, though a dramatist and fleet,
His Pegasus, obey'd the bit.
Some bards, full cautious and exact,
Are sway'd by Aristotle's act,
Which doth provide in certain cases,
Strict laws concerning times and places:
To break through which, without just reason,
Is deem'd a literary treason:
129
Must reverence probability.
Restricted by the sage's plan,
Steadily went our little man:
At length arriv'd, he hail'd the spring,
Dismounted, and address'd the ring:
For as it chanc'd, the ladies nine,
Were, after dinner, quaffing wine:
A basket of ambrosia by,
Remain'd to tempt the stranger's eye;
Yet ere he laid a finger on,
He told them what he came upon.
“Ye ever-honour'd three times three,
I Coley George, now visit ye,
Alas, the messenger of news,
That needs must shock each gentle muse:
The facts connected with the matter,
Will turn your nectar into water:
And your divine poetic lake,
An ordinary puddle make.
Roscius, old Drury's mighty king,
(With pain, ye maids, I tell the thing.)
Roscius, resolv'd to leave the town,
Prepares to quit the scenic crown:
Even now he flies, he's gone this hour,
Unless you interpose your power.—”
“And who the diadem shall wear?”
Cried the sad Muses in despair;
All rose confus'd, some swore 'twas fable;
And spilt their nectar on the table:
The tragic Lady tore her hair,
Ma'am Comedy began to swear:
The Graces, who were then their guests,
With great good breeding thump'd their breasts:
And though, perhaps, it was but art,
So well each fair one play'd her part;
They topt it, Reader, as they'd been
Training a summer for the scene:
I'm led to judge it a deceit,
(A pretty modish counterfeit)
Because, tho' some amongst them, had
Sufficient reason to run mad;
Tho' poor Thalia, well might cry,
And her sad sister, sob and sigh:
Yet really all the rest might spare,
Their woeful looks, and sullen air.
For those to whimper—'twas a whim,
He scarce knew them, they scarce knew him:
For wherefore could the charming Graces,
Distort, and spoil their lovely faces?
The thing, then as it seems to me,
Is, that they wept for sympathy:
For, if you criticise, you shall
Observe, that Grief's electrical;
When Belvidera, draws the tear,
Behold—the handkerchiefs appear,
At once, a thousand noses blow,
In sympathising strains of woe:
But mark—We don't conclude from hence,
And feel the pathos of the sense:
Or all regard the stage, or player,
Ev'n though the lovely Barry's there;
For, those who truly are distrest,
The nose shall blow, perhaps the least;
Nor is each tender heart alike,
And one woe cannot all folks strike:
Where fathers feel themselves a Lear,
No doubt the misery's sincere:
But she who shall be bride to-morrow,
May weep for joy, but not for sorrow;
And many a tittering fair you find,
So little of the weeping kind,
Ev'n Shakespeare's scenes could never melt,
Tho' still, you'd swear, they really felt:
When tender people round you cry;
'Tis right to bear them company,
The fan before the face to pull,
And vow, 'tis passing pitiful:
The eye to rub, the head to lean,
And seem—quite soften'd by the scene.
I Coley George, now visit ye,
Alas, the messenger of news,
That needs must shock each gentle muse:
The facts connected with the matter,
Will turn your nectar into water:
And your divine poetic lake,
An ordinary puddle make.
Roscius, old Drury's mighty king,
(With pain, ye maids, I tell the thing.)
130
Prepares to quit the scenic crown:
Even now he flies, he's gone this hour,
Unless you interpose your power.—”
“And who the diadem shall wear?”
Cried the sad Muses in despair;
All rose confus'd, some swore 'twas fable;
And spilt their nectar on the table:
The tragic Lady tore her hair,
Ma'am Comedy began to swear:
The Graces, who were then their guests,
With great good breeding thump'd their breasts:
And though, perhaps, it was but art,
So well each fair one play'd her part;
They topt it, Reader, as they'd been
Training a summer for the scene:
I'm led to judge it a deceit,
(A pretty modish counterfeit)
Because, tho' some amongst them, had
Sufficient reason to run mad;
Tho' poor Thalia, well might cry,
And her sad sister, sob and sigh:
131
Their woeful looks, and sullen air.
For those to whimper—'twas a whim,
He scarce knew them, they scarce knew him:
For wherefore could the charming Graces,
Distort, and spoil their lovely faces?
The thing, then as it seems to me,
Is, that they wept for sympathy:
For, if you criticise, you shall
Observe, that Grief's electrical;
When Belvidera, draws the tear,
Behold—the handkerchiefs appear,
At once, a thousand noses blow,
In sympathising strains of woe:
But mark—We don't conclude from hence,
And feel the pathos of the sense:
Or all regard the stage, or player,
Ev'n though the lovely Barry's there;
For, those who truly are distrest,
The nose shall blow, perhaps the least;
Nor is each tender heart alike,
And one woe cannot all folks strike:
132
No doubt the misery's sincere:
But she who shall be bride to-morrow,
May weep for joy, but not for sorrow;
And many a tittering fair you find,
So little of the weeping kind,
Ev'n Shakespeare's scenes could never melt,
Tho' still, you'd swear, they really felt:
When tender people round you cry;
'Tis right to bear them company,
The fan before the face to pull,
And vow, 'tis passing pitiful:
The eye to rub, the head to lean,
And seem—quite soften'd by the scene.
This clears the conduct of each Muse,
Nor could the Graces well refuse,
When Mel. and Tha. heav'd sighs by dozens,
To give the sympathy of cousins;
Their beauteous sisters too gave vent:
Sniveling by way of compliment.
Nor could the Graces well refuse,
When Mel. and Tha. heav'd sighs by dozens,
To give the sympathy of cousins;
Their beauteous sisters too gave vent:
Sniveling by way of compliment.
133
Some thought the news must be a fable,
Roscius, they said, though old was able
The courier must mistake the thing,
They'd send an herald to the king,
And have it well confirm'd, for sure,
The tidings must be premature.
The courier said, he told the truth,
Moreover, that a tuneful youth,
Who, by a certain Spanish plot,
A wond'rous rich Duenna got,
That he, the palace, now had bought,
The trappings, trimmings, and what not:
That other gentlefolks had part,
And shar'd the instruments of art:
The comic mask, the tragic train,
The sun shine, and the showers of rain;
The weeds the witches often danc'd in,
With colour'd coat of Harlequin.
The sceptres, swords, and suits of mail,
The palace flats, the park, the jail;
The dragons, bears, and dromedaries,
And all the Pantomime vagaries:
The truncheon, targe, and trumpet loud,
The paste-board crown, and canvass cloud:
The thunder-spouts, and thunder too,
With robes, of Tartar, Turk, and Jew:
The couches, coronets, and camps,
The stars, the moon, and all the lamps:
The heroes habits, whole, and torn,
And ermine, walking dukes, have worn:
The blazing petticoats, and sacks,
Which often grac'd princesses backs:
In short, the whole machinery,
And all the trick of tragedy.
Roscius, they said, though old was able
The courier must mistake the thing,
They'd send an herald to the king,
And have it well confirm'd, for sure,
The tidings must be premature.
The courier said, he told the truth,
Moreover, that a tuneful youth,
Who, by a certain Spanish plot,
A wond'rous rich Duenna got,
That he, the palace, now had bought,
The trappings, trimmings, and what not:
That other gentlefolks had part,
And shar'd the instruments of art:
The comic mask, the tragic train,
The sun shine, and the showers of rain;
The weeds the witches often danc'd in,
With colour'd coat of Harlequin.
The sceptres, swords, and suits of mail,
The palace flats, the park, the jail;
The dragons, bears, and dromedaries,
And all the Pantomime vagaries:
134
The paste-board crown, and canvass cloud:
The thunder-spouts, and thunder too,
With robes, of Tartar, Turk, and Jew:
The couches, coronets, and camps,
The stars, the moon, and all the lamps:
The heroes habits, whole, and torn,
And ermine, walking dukes, have worn:
The blazing petticoats, and sacks,
Which often grac'd princesses backs:
In short, the whole machinery,
And all the trick of tragedy.
Enough, enough, said Pommy, here,
I see the horrid matter clear,
It chiefly touches you and me.
It does my dear Melpomene,
Exclaim'd poor Thaly—let us fly
With speed, to feather'd Mercury!
I see the horrid matter clear,
It chiefly touches you and me.
It does my dear Melpomene,
Exclaim'd poor Thaly—let us fly
With speed, to feather'd Mercury!
135
This said, the sisters, instant went
To Maia in the firmament:
Their golden pinions beat the wind,
The little herald stay'd behind;
Long'd with the rest to hold converse,
But thought it right to talk in verse.
The bard, a Connisseur, they found,
And many a civil thing went round,
So after much dramatic chat,
They stuck a laurel in his hat:
Then, as the nectar 'gan to rise
(Which they get constant from the skies;
For, from Olympus to Parnass,
With them it is an easy pass)
Each lady, freely spoke her mind,
And did—what by, and by, you'll find.
To Maia in the firmament:
Their golden pinions beat the wind,
The little herald stay'd behind;
Long'd with the rest to hold converse,
But thought it right to talk in verse.
The bard, a Connisseur, they found,
And many a civil thing went round,
So after much dramatic chat,
They stuck a laurel in his hat:
Then, as the nectar 'gan to rise
(Which they get constant from the skies;
For, from Olympus to Parnass,
With them it is an easy pass)
Each lady, freely spoke her mind,
And did—what by, and by, you'll find.
Reader, 'twould sacriligious look,
At the mere fag end of a book,
The sacred matters to rehearse,
Which figure in our future verse:
When great affairs approach, we pause,
This is amongst our epic laws:
Important points demand parade.
And to grace these we Cantos made.
At the mere fag end of a book,
The sacred matters to rehearse,
Which figure in our future verse:
136
This is amongst our epic laws:
Important points demand parade.
And to grace these we Cantos made.
END OF THE SECOND CANTO.
137
CANTO III.
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.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.
While Mel. and Tha. are gone to heaven,
We, your admirers, sisters seven,
138
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
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;
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.
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
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.
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;
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,
Hurrying he went, from grove to grove,
And ranted rage, or sung of love.
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
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
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.
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.
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
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:
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.
(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
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:
'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.
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
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
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,
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.
Were next assembled—to a shade.
Poor Benedict, began to stare:
And tho' 'tis odd how he got there
147
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
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.”
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,
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.
Replied the silver-shafted god,
149
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.
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.
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;
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,
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;
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:
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!
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:
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;
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.
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
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
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 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
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
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
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
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;
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.
Wherefore, friend Mercury, so sly,
Rejoin'd the poet—in these days,
Actors, I hear, get pence, and praise;
157
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;
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.
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
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.
Now bent his course towards Helicon.
Told every Muse th' appeal was vain,
And, in a huff, sought heaven again.
THE END.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |