 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
On seeing Mrs. Woffington appear in several Characters.
Delightful
Woffington! so form'd to please,
Strikes ev'ry Taste, can ev'ry Passion raise,
In Shapes as various as her Sexes are,
And all the Woman seems compriz'd in her:
With easy Action and becoming Mien
She shines accomplish'd, bright'ning ev'ry Scene.
The Prude and the Coquet in her we find,
And all the Foibles of the fairer Kind,
Express'd in Characters themselves would own,
The Manner such as might the Vice atone:
Her taking Graces gain them new Esteem;
They're chang'd to Virtues, or like Virtues seem.
Strikes ev'ry Taste, can ev'ry Passion raise,
In Shapes as various as her Sexes are,
And all the Woman seems compriz'd in her:
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She shines accomplish'd, bright'ning ev'ry Scene.
The Prude and the Coquet in her we find,
And all the Foibles of the fairer Kind,
Express'd in Characters themselves would own,
The Manner such as might the Vice atone:
Her taking Graces gain them new Esteem;
They're chang'd to Virtues, or like Virtues seem.
If, drown'd in Grief, pathetic Sorrows flow,
The pitying Audience feels the mimic Woe;
The soft Infection swims in gushing Tears,
We weep the Ills of twice two thousand Years.
When warlike Pyrrhus woos th'afflicted Fair,
Then all Andromache's display'd in her:
The Springs of Nature feel her pow'rful Art,
She moves the Passions, and she melts the Heart:
Her noble Manner all the Soul alarms,
When Sorrow shakes us, and when Virtue charms;
Sincere Emotions in each Bosom rise,
And real Anguish knows no mock Disguise.
Who would not Beauty's falling Fate deplore,
Who sees her faint, and droop, and sink in Shore?
The dying Fair excites such gen'rous Pain,
What Bosom bleeds not when she begs in vain?
Extreme Distress so feelingly she draws,
She seems to challenge, not to court Applause.
Secure of Worth, nor anxious of her Claim,
She cooly draws a careless Bill on Fame.
The noblest Sentiment, by her display'd,
In all the Pomp of Milton's Muse array'd,
Emphatic Beauties from her Hand receive,
Adorn'd by Graces which they us'd to give:
Envy herself extorted Tribute pays,
And Candour spreads, and Justice crowns her Praise.
The pitying Audience feels the mimic Woe;
The soft Infection swims in gushing Tears,
We weep the Ills of twice two thousand Years.
When warlike Pyrrhus woos th'afflicted Fair,
Then all Andromache's display'd in her:
The Springs of Nature feel her pow'rful Art,
She moves the Passions, and she melts the Heart:
Her noble Manner all the Soul alarms,
When Sorrow shakes us, and when Virtue charms;
Sincere Emotions in each Bosom rise,
And real Anguish knows no mock Disguise.
Who would not Beauty's falling Fate deplore,
Who sees her faint, and droop, and sink in Shore?
The dying Fair excites such gen'rous Pain,
What Bosom bleeds not when she begs in vain?
Extreme Distress so feelingly she draws,
She seems to challenge, not to court Applause.
Secure of Worth, nor anxious of her Claim,
She cooly draws a careless Bill on Fame.
The noblest Sentiment, by her display'd,
In all the Pomp of Milton's Muse array'd,
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Adorn'd by Graces which they us'd to give:
Envy herself extorted Tribute pays,
And Candour spreads, and Justice crowns her Praise.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |