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SHAKESPEARE: AN EPISTLE to Mr. GARRICK; WITH An ODE to GENIUS.
[Price One Shilling.]
AN EPISTLE TO DAVID GARRICK, Eſq.
[1]THANKS to much Induſtry and Pains,
Much twiſting of the Wit and Brains,
Tranſlation has unlock'd the Store,
And ſpread abroad the Grecian Lore,
While Sophocles his Scenes are grown,
[...]
[3]
No more ſhall Taſte preſume to ſpeak,
From its Encloſures in the Greek;
But, all its Fences broken down,
Lie at the Mercy of the Town.
Critic, I hear thy Torrent rage,
"'Tis Blaſphemy againſt that Stage,
"Which Aeſchylus his Warmth deſign'd,
"Euripides his Taſte refin'd,
"And Sophocles his laſt Direction,
"Stamp'd with the Signet of Perfection."
Perfection's but a Word ideal,
And bears about it nothing real,
And Excellence was never hit
In the firſt Eſſays of Man's Wit.
Shall ancient Worth, or ancient Fame
Preclude the Moderns from their Claim?
Muſt they be Blockheads, Dolts, and Fools,
Who write not up to Grecian Rules?
Who tread in Buſkins or in Socks
Muſt they be damn'd [...],
[4] Nor Merit of good Works prevail,
Except within the claſſic Pale?
'Tis Stuff that bears the Name of Knowlege,
Not current half a Mile from College;
Where half their Lectures yield no more
(Beſure I ſpeak of Times of yore)
Than juſt a niggard Light, to mark
How much we all are in the Dark.
As Ruſhlights in a ſpacious Room,
Juſt burn enough to form a Gloom.
When Shakeſpeare leads the Mind a Dance,
From France to England, hence to France,
Talk not to me of Time and Place;
I own I'm happy in the Chace.
Whether the Drama's here or there,
'Tis Nature, Shakeſpeare, every where.
The Poet's Fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,
Bring paſt and preſent cloſe together,
In ſpite of Diſtance, Seas, or Weather.
And ſhut up in a ſingle Action,
[...]
[4] So, Ladies at a Play, or Rout,
Can flirt the Univerſe about,
Whoſe geographical Account
Is drawn and pictur'd on the Mount.
Yet, when they pleaſe, contract the Plan,
And ſhut the World up in a Fan.
True Genius, like Armida's Wand,
Can raiſe the Spring from barren Land.
While all the Art of Imitation,
Is pilf'ring from the firſt Creation;
Tranſplanting Flowers with uſeleſs Toil,
Which wither in a foreign Soil.
As Conſcience often ſets us right,
By its interior active Light,
Without th' Aſſiſtance of the Laws
To combat in the moral Cauſe;
So Genius, of itſelf diſcerning,
Without the myſtic Rules of Learning,
Can from its preſent Intuition,
Strike at the truth of Compoſition.
[5]
Yet thoſe who breath the claſſic Vein,
Enliſted in the mimic Train,
Who ride their Steed with double Bit,
Not run away with by their Wit,
Delighted with the Pomp of Rules,
The ſpecious Pedantry of Schools;
Which Rules, like Crutches, ne'er became,
Of any Uſe but to the Lame.
Perſue the Method ſat before 'em,
Talk much of Order and Decorum.
Of Probability, of Fiction,
Of Manners, Ornament and Diction.
And with a Jargon of hard Names,
A Privilege which Dulneſs claims,
And merely us'd by way of Fence,
To keep out plain and Common Senſe.
Extoll the Wit of antient Days,
The ſimple Fabric of their Plays,
Then from the Fable, all ſo chaſte,
Trick'd up in modern, antient Taſte,
So mighty gentle all the while,
[...]
[6] While Chorus, marks the ſervile Mode
With fine Reflexion, in an Ode,
Preſent you with a perfect Piece,
Form'd on the Model of old Greece.
Come, prithee Critic, ſet before us,
The Uſe and Office of a Chorus.
What! Silent! Why then, I'll produce,
Its Services from antient Uſe.
'Tis to be ever on the Stage,
Attendants upon Grief or Rage,
To be an arrant Go-between,
Chief-Mourner, at each diſmal Scene.
Shewing its Sorrow, or Delight,
By ſhifting Dances, left and right.
Not much unlike our modern Notions,
Adagio or Alegro Motions;
To watch upon the deep Diſtreſs,
And plaints of Royal Wretchedneſs;
And when, with Tears, and Execration,
They've pour'd out all their Lamentation,
[...]
[...]
[7] And with their Hai's and Hee's and Hoe's
To make a Symphony of Woes.
Doubtleſs the Antients want the Art,
To ſtrike at once upon the Heart.
Or why their Prologues of a Mile
In ſimple—call it—humble Stile,
In unimpaſſion'd Phraſe to ſay
'Fore the Beginning of this Play,
I hapleſs Polydore was found,
By Fiſhermen or others drown'd?
Or, I a Gentleman, did wed,
Great Agamemnon's royal Daughter,
Who's coming hither to draw Water?
Or need the Chorus to reveal,
Reflexions which the Audience feel;
And jog them leaſt Attention ſink,
To tell them how and what to think?
Oh, where's the Bard, who at one View,
Cou'd look the whole Creation through,
[...]
[...]
[8] He ſcorn'd the Modes of Imitation,
Of Altering, Pilfering, and Traſlation,
Nor painted Horror, Grief, or Rage
From Models of a former Age;
The bright Original he took,
And tore the Leaf from Nature's Book.
'Tis Shakeſpeare, thus who ſtands alone—
Why need I tell what you have ſhown.
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The Feelings of our Hearts muſt tell.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4175 Shakespeare an epistle to Mr Garrick with an ode to genius. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-6091-3