MOMUS.
[]NO more ſhall Monkey's mimicry engage,
No more ſhall Cats and Dog suſurp the ſtage *,
See Momus' ſons, a ſingle unit higher,
Divert the town with his detractive fire,
While patents royal are to Merit thrown,
To pleaſe Sir F—n—s and a taſteleſs town.
See F—te the foremoſt of the mimic race,
Amuſe the town with ſcandal and grimace,
While private characters each ſcene adorn,
Held up by him to meet the public ſcorn.
[6]
Where cuſtom's brought on ſome peculiar mode
Of ſpeech, or air, out of the common road;
If but deficient in a leg or eye,
Or, from misfortune, chance to look awry,
This maimed mimic, favour'd ſo by fate,
That he might ſtill more truly imitate;
With ſelf-vain zeal a ſtupid laugh to raiſe,
He with a low audacity conveys
His borrow'd puns, with a ſarcaſtic face,
(Join'd by the meaneſt of the acting race)
Without reſtraint his deareſt friends expoſe,—
But F—te and friendſhip are eternal foes.
Never did folly, with ſuch ſway, maintain
Her ſeat, and, with her baby rattle, reign
Over Apollo and his laurell'd ſons
With glees and catches, mimicry and puns.
Like the loud Quack, in ſome ſmall country town,
Who, with his fool, entices ev'ry clown
[7]To ſee his pranks, and filthy drugs to vend,
And, with a puff, their quality commend:
So F—te like him, his own loud trumpet blows,
And, with a puff, his traſh for wit impoſe;
As wrecks and rubbiſh follow every tide,
So ev'ry blockhead joins the laughing ſide.
Bleſt with a face of humour, to engage
At once a drooping, and a laughing age,
Sh—t—r with ſome pretenſions to a name,
Stands forth diſtinguiſh'd in the book of fame
The grateful public will for humour take
Whatever blunder he may chance to make,
Who, fond of laughter, oddity and whim,
Have fix'd the maſk of Comedy on him.
With face by Bacchus, or by Venus marr'd,
For he's with both the mighty powers warr'd;
In word expreſſive, and in geſture dry,
In action ſimple, with a meaning eye,
[8]See Weſton gravely force the hearty ſmile,
Nor pall with low buffoonery the while:
Whene'er in Sneak or Drugger he appears,
Garrick attends with patient eyes and ears,
And owns his humour natural and true,
For Garrick muſt give genius her due.
See D—e D—s better half the year
A mere poltroon—a hero now appear!
Unnotic'd and obſcure he ſtruts unknown,
An utter ſtranger to the injur'd town,
Till F—te, his patron, impotent and wiſe,
At once convinces each beholder's eyes,
That merit oft beneath oppreſſion dwells,
For ſee how D—s now himſelf excells.
Aimwell, Caſſio, nay, and many more,
Such parts were never acted ſo before,
And that my Muſe may ſhew her meaning plain,
Hopes ne'er to ſee 'em murder'd ſo again.
[9]
An arrant ſtroller, from the lord knows where,
A true itinerant, now here, now there,
Who oft from barn to barn, from town to town,
Ten nights has labour'd for a ſingle crown;
See B—nn—r aſſume (unaw'd by ſhame)
A mimic's vile and deſpicable name;
There's no degree of acting, all allow,
So very puerile, infamous or low;—
For who e'er knew a mimic yet inherit
The ſmalleſt grain of genius or of ſpirit?
And has it not for ever been a rule
To join a mimic's name with that of fool?
The laughing-ſtock of candour and of fame,
A very monkey with a human name;
But joins not he then in a blockhead's cauſe,
That yields them favour, or that gives applauſe?
Each man of reaſon, and of judgment, muſt
Confeſs it neither laudable or juſt.—
B—nn—r a Wilkinſon would be,
But can't ſo truly imitate as he.
[10]To ape the manner of ſome better play'r,
An act ungen'rous, at the beſt, unfair;
Why ſhould one actor villainouſly try
To damn another in the public eye?
Either by malice or by envy led,
To hurt his brother in his fame or bread?
When to the world 'tis evidently known,
He ne'er could boaſt a method of his own.
Such are a peſt and ſcandal to the ſtage,
And who but F—te would any ſuch engage?
Why don't the candid and inſulted town,
In juſtice, cry theſe imitators down?
For all muſt own the ſtage was ne'er deſign'd
To point at this, or that, but all mankind.
E'en devotees muſt own the ſtage of uſe,
Where it don't leave inſtruction for abuſe.
Lead by conceit, and fond of ſtage applauſe,
Yet ſtands condemn'd, if judg'd by acting laws;
[11]With face, nor voice, nor action, to commend,
Or win one ſingle auditor his friend;
See S—w—n, great in capitals appear,
Diſguſt the eye and grate the dulleſt ear;
For he moſt ſurely, of all human kind,
Was ne'er by nature for the ſtage deſign'd:
Long in Hibernia has he trod the field,
Where judgment oft to prejudice muſt yield,
And with no ſmall indulgence and regard,
Tho' ev'ry night ſome noble part he marr'd.
See him return, declining, and in age,
Riding, his only Hobby-Horſe, the ſtage,
And with a boyiſh zeal the toy embrace,
Tho' time with years has wrinkled o'er his face.
Of vulgar accent, and of bully's pink,
A rolling ſidle, with a knowing wink,
Coarſe and robuſt, who might perhaps engage,
Had he been caſt on the Broughtonian ſtage:
[12] P—l—r, ſelf-confident, attempts to pleaſe,
In high-wrote parts of elegance and eaſe;
But like to him, who roll'd the ſtone in vain,
Will ne'er the ſummit of his hopes attain;
Yet muſt we own him ſome ſmall ſhare of praiſe,
When Bruin, Loader, and ſuch parts he plays;
He's ſure to pleaſe while in this line he ſteers,
For in ſuch parts he ſtill himſelf appears.
Then let him ever in that track remain,
Where he is ſure, ſome ſmall applauſe to gain,
And never more in gentlemen and beaux,
Diſgrace the ſtage, the author, and the cloaths.
Barry, each ſeaſon, might delight the town,
But that we've better actors of our own:
Yet think not Barry that I will diſgrace,
Or mean to herd thee with the common race;
Thou art an Actor ev'ry judge muſt own,
And many years a fav'rite of the town,
[13]Till Powell chanc'd within thy walk to tread,
And pluck'd the blooming laurel from thy head:
Yet in Othello muſt each actor yield,
There even Garrick muſt give up the field,
And own thee for the part, by nature fram'd,
We think of Barry when Othello's nam'd.
Not ſo thy ſon, when in each part he tries,
To copy thee, too oft from nature flies;
Yet will it faintly bear the name of fault,
To follow cloſe the manners we are taught:
From thee, his ev'ry method he conceiv'd,
From thee, each beauty and each fault receiv'd,
Nor ſhould we deem him deſtitute of art,
Did he with decency perform one part.
O could my ardent, yet unwilling Muſe,
Obtain one kind and plauſible excuſe,
And, without cenſure, be indulged to ſpare,
And overlook the errors of the fair—
[14]But chaſte Aſtrea guides my feeble hand,
And will not liſten to my warm demand.
Bleſt with a form of elegance and eaſe,
Two requiſites that muſt for ever pleaſe,
Who for a ſeaſon might perhaps engage,
When Yates, awhile, retires from the ſtage:
See Dancer now each high-rate part poſſeſs,
And try to picture virtue and diſtreſs,
But judgment ſeems to leave her in the dark,
Whene'er ſhe aims to hit the doubtful mark.
With bold preſumption, in deſpite of ſhame,
J—ff—s attempts to join the rank of fame,
And void of judgment, attitude and ſpeech,
She aims at characters above her reach;
When poor Alicia with diſtraction raves,
And calls for racks, for thunderbolts, and graves;
Did Cinderilla ever ſcold ſo well,
When in her airs ſhe bid you go to h—ll?
[15]When drove by love and paſſion to deſpair,
And having loſt all hopes, begins to ſwear;
So ſad Alicia, when by J—ff—s play'd,
A mere impetuous termagant betray'd.—
Forgive me J—ff—s that I ſpeak my mind,
True ſatire never leaves one fault behind;
But ſince ſhe's brought thy errors forth to view,
So ſhall ſhe ſpeak of thy perfections too.
In third-rate parts, where nature don't require
Such ſkill in action, or ſuch force of fire,
When nor by pride nor by ambition led,
Content the paths of moderation tread,
There ſpite of cenſure ſhalt thou juſtly raiſe,
The ſmile of pleaſure and the voice of praiſe.
See one in parts of wit and humour, ſtrive
To catch the manner of a Pope or Clive;
For G—d—r the copyiſt betrays,
In ev'ry part of humour that ſhe plays,
[16]And from her acting it is plainly ſhewn,
She likes their manner better than her own;
But ſuch, a barren genius declares,
Who, having no invention, borrows theirs.
Oglevie's pretty and genteel, I own,
And has ſome little ſparks of genius ſhewn,
Time and inſtruction may in her produce,
With ſome ſmall pains, an actreſs of uſe.
Behind appear a deſpicable race,
Without one ſingle requiſite or grace,
Beneath the notice of my honeſt Muſe,
And, but to mention, would herſelf abuſe.
Names both to genius and to fame unknown,
The needy ſtragglers of each country town;
Fit but to form ſome neceſſary group,
Or to compleat F—te's miſerable troop,
When furniſh'd out with truncheons and with cloaths,
See 'em a royal company compoſe.
[17]
By theſe enforc'd, and arm'd with impudence,
See him invade the boundaries of ſenſe,
Break thro' the rules of genius and taſte,
And lay, with ridicule, their kingdoms waſte;
Pleas'd with his own, behold the mocker ſtrive,
With ſome ſucceſs, his Grub-ſtreet to revive,
And ev'ry ſeaſon palls us with the ſame,
Till jaded patience ſickens at his name.
Each man of candour, muſt in this agree,
His merit lies in inconſiſtency;
In art theatric, deſtitute of ſkill,
Yet makes a figure in a puffing bill;
In this judicious, 'tis a crafty ſnare,
To catch the vulgar, and to make 'em ſtare;
Pleas'd with the promiſe of the joyous fun,
Away to F—te's the herd unthinking run;
He gains his riches at the fool's expence,
Deſpis'd and ſhunn'd by ev'ry man of ſenſe.
[18]
High on Parnaſſus wou'd he wiſh to ride,
And, unreſtrain'd, the winged courſer ſtride;
But is it not moſt evident to all,
The limping Bard has had a fatal fall.
A famous play-write wou'd he ſeem to be,
A very Phoenix to poſterity.—
Grief! that his name muſt with his body die,
And all his bantlings with their father lie,
When, lacking his diſtortion and grimace,
Their ſole protection and their only grace,
Spurn'd and deteſted in ſome wiſer age,
Will never more get footing on the ſtage.
Of theſe, the Minor, at the head we ſee,
Born at the time of his neceſſity;
When threaten'd by the horrors of a j—,
Was forc'd to hoiſt up ev'ry tatter'd ſail;
And muſt have ſunk had not the tortur'd Cole,
(Who, like a Pirate, he unjuſtly ſtole)
[19]Buoy'd him, when ſinking, to the welcome ſhore,
And ſav'd at once his veſſel and his ſtore.
A very ſuſtian-jacket at the beſt;
At Covent-Garden long ago cry'd down,
Hiſs'd and condemn'd by the inſulted town.
The Mayor of Garret next we bring to view,
Which we muſt own both laughable and new,
But candour will admit of no excuſe,
Where ſhe beholds ſuch perſonal abuſe.
His Patron, Commiſſary, even all
His drolls, beneath this cenſure fall.
His Orators, a very hodge-podge ſee,
Made up of rubbiſh and abſurdity,
[20]Cramm'd full of puns, of nonſenſe and parade,
With neither plot, or meaning to its aid:
And while to wit he makes a falſe pretence,
Or tries to introduce one line of ſenſe;
With vain attempt he ſtammers at the taſk,
A very Midas in Apollo's maſk.
Theſe grown quite thread-bare, and worn out with age,
Like F—te himſelf, a nuiſance to the ſtage,
He's brought his Taylors, like a thrifty friend,
To botch their elbows and their linings mend;
With royal ſanction force 'em on the town,
When they are ſick of better treatment grown.
Did Smithfield e'er produce a bill ſo rare,
When Punchinello was the hero there?
Did ever Flockton's tragedy excell?
Was ever ſhew-bill drawn up half ſo well?
Did ever Quack with ſuch parade engage?
Not even R—k when he adorn'd the ſtage:
[21]Did Taylor e'er with patchwork form a coat,
And without meaſure too, as F—te has wrote?
Did ever play-write exerciſe his quill
With half that humour, or with half that ſkill?
And ſtock'd, like him, with true poetic lore,
Write ſuch a Taylor's tragedy before.
Try'd, and condemn'd by th' indulgent town,
The father won't his new-born idiot own:
But fain wou'd bribe the bawdy muſe its mother,
To lay the frightful monſter on another,
To drop it at ſome door, or elſe to ſmother.
Yet if with cloſe inſpection you ſhou'd trace
The ſtriking outlines of the infant's face,
The father's ſtrong reſemblance you'll behold,
As die to die, caſt in the ſelf-ſame mould.
As Epicurians with luxuriant waſte,
Who loſe at once their appetite and taſte,
[22]And try to teaze the ſtomach ev'ry hour
With ſomething ſweet, or elſe with ſomething ſour;
Or when the rake is quite indiff'rent grown,
Sated with all the pleaſures of the town;
See him from place to place with tranſport fly,
In ſearch of pleaſure and variety.
When ſick of high life he begins to grow,
He tries to find a reliſh in the low;
F—te next ariſes to his vacant mind,
For there he's ſure the coarſeſt fare to find;
Tho' coarſe, yet light, and eaſy to digeſt,
Nor hurt the head before it meets the breaſt.
No heavy ſentence to perplex the brain,
No ſearching morals on the mind remain,
But like the froth, diſſolving in the taſte,
And, ere it meets the lip, begins to waſte:
While in our ears he dins the mighty pother,
It enters one, and hurries out at t'other.
FINIS.