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GARRICK's LOOKING-GLASS: OR, THE ART OF RISING ON THE STAGE. IN THREE CANTOS.
[Price Half a Crown.]
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GARRICK's LOOKING-GLASS: OR, THE ART OF RISING ON THE STAGE.
A POEM. IN THREE CANTOS.
DECORATED WITH DRAMATIC CHARACTERS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF *****.
—Poems read without a Name
We juſtly praiſe, or juſtly blame.
SWIFT.
LONDON: Printed and Sold by T. EVANS, Paternoſter Row: by W. WILSON, DUBLIN: and by W. CREECH, EDINBURGH.
M, DCC, LXXVI.
THE ART OF RISING ON THE STAGE.
[]CANTO I.
TO grace the elbow-chair of age,
ROSCIUS, the monarch of the ſtage;
(For ROSCIUS was in years, well ſtricken,
Beſides that he began to thicken)
Reſolv'd to lay the ſceptre down,
And make his exit from the town.
To this intent, he ſummon'd ſtrait,
The lords and commons of his ſtate,
A motley tribe as you ſhould ſee;
A theatre's variety;
From Madam YATES, to COLUMBINE:
He ſummon'd them, exact at nine,
[2]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 folks, were on the ſcout
And fairly wiſh'd themſelves without:
The gentlemen, ſtroll'd here and there
Till ROSCIUS came, and took the chair:
Then ſtood, in attitude profound,
And thus addreſs'd the circle round.
"MY ſubjects and my friends, adieu:
I now am come, to part with you.
Full forty years, in various places,
Have I, alas, been making faces:
During which time—as you can tell,
Much have I talk'd of heaven, and hell;
Myſelf have ſtabb'd, through every part;
And often given away my heart;
Imaginary crimes committed,
Been hated, ſcorn'd, admir'd, and pitied:
[3]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.
Ten thouſand times this hand, has preſs'd
In mimic agony, my breaſt;
I've died for love, and roſe again,
On purpoſe to repeat my pain.
At once I've ſtabb'd both man and maid
And, now and then, a tyrant play'd.
Not Sir JOHN HILL, ſo much has wrote,
As I have ſpoken through my throat;
'Tis true indeed, we all rehearſe
Each year, a waggon load of verſe;
I, when the poet loſt his gift,
Have kindly given the man a lift,
When poets, weighty matters cobble,
And their gall'd jades begin to hobble,
The player, doctors up their feet,
And makes them ſeem, both ſound and fleet;
[4]This have I done—with your aſſiſtance,
Tho' ſometimes, we ſcarce ſav'd our 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 would, ere courſe the ſecond, fall:
To tell you then my ſerious wiſh,
I'm tir'd of this poetic diſh,
So mean to bid farewel to verſe,
And live upon my proſe, and purſe:
I'm on the edges of threeſcore,
'Tis really time to give it o'er;
I need not counterfeit a wrinkle!
Behold—it ſtrikes you in a twinkle!
The ſtep of ſixty, as I ſtir
You ſee: 'tis downright angular I
I'm now unfit for rant and riot,
And ſo determine to be quiet;
[5]No more will I the PROTEUS play,
But chooſe henceforth the private way:
Nay, Mr. KING, you need not ſtare,
I am in earneſt now I ſwear;
As player, manager, and poet,
"I've done ſome ſervice, and you 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—three times hail—my little ſavings:
I never coveted ſuch ſtuff,
But will retire, with juſt enough
To line the evening couch with down,
And keep a cottage out of town,
My homely Hampton hut, I mean,
Altho' a plain, a pleaſant ſcene;
A palace ill befitteth age,
Mine, is the ſeaſon to be ſage;
And that's, another reaſon, why
I lay this buſtling buſineſs by:
[6]Altho' of actors, I am king
The hour, alas, is on the wing
When I, and real monarchs, muſt
Lay all our royalties in duſt:
I now an awful part ſhould act,
And fable, muſt give way to fact:
You ſee my purpoſe, and my plan;
No more the player, 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;
Where, by the aid of good blank verſe,
Stout heroes, have improved their curſe:
Where dukes, of every ſort and ſize,
Have complimented ladies eyes;
[7]Where chiefs, have fought their country's cauſe,
And ſtateſmen made, and unmade laws;
Where counteſſes, have drain'd the bowl,
Or ſtabb'd the form, to ſave the ſoul;
While virgins, rather than ſubmit,
Their pretty, panting hearts have hit;
Where all of us, have had our blows,
Our ſieges, battles, joys, and woes;
Ah friends—I cannot leave this place,
Till I have given my laſt embrace;
My eyes will linger to this ſpot,
Till you my laſt advice, have got.
FRIENDS, ours, is oft a dangerous trade,
Take then a recipe I've made,
I've tried its efficacy long,
Mind and apply it to the tongue:
The legs, and arms, muſt claim a part;
I've mixt it up, with wondrous art,
'Twill move the ſoul, and mend each feature;
I'm told, there's not the like in nature,
[8]And as a mark, 'twill bear the teſt,
Me, it hath made—Probatum eſt.
Take firſt a well-ſiz'd LOOKING-GLASS,
"And view your ſhadow as you paſs:"
Mark every 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:
As bad it is, to jerk, and run,
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 the mirror, how to ſtare,
To ſmile in joy, to droop in care:
With eaſe, to hector-it, or ſin-it,
And be the PROTEUS of the minute:
[9]From gloomy, ſhift to the ſerene,
And learn to methodiſe your mien:
In drawing off a glove, I'll tell,
Whether a woman is bred well,
In tieing on a ſolitaire,
Or in the tender of a chair,
Or managing the limbs below,
I know whate'er a man can do.
I prithee 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:
From that fair fount, the truth muſt flow,
Yet, art can make a ſhift you know;
I've found it frequently ſupply,
The want of ſenſibility.
But then, 'twill take up all your leiſure,
Ere you can make ſuch toil a pleaſure;
[10]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;
Enough for them, if truth it tell,
And bids SUE roaſt the mutton well,
The fine machinery they miſs;
As 'tis in that, ſo 'tis in this.
[11]I would not have you then deſpair,
Tho' Nature, ſhould her bleſſings ſpare,
Tho' ſome of you, ſhould feel no more,
Than DUNSTAN'S giants o'er church door:
Sheer art, may move a man about,
And 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 ſix,
Inſtead of one, you may take ſix:
'Twere well indeed, if, when it's come,
With dext'rous daſh of hand, or thumb,
[12]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,
[13]The thundering boaſt, of bluſtering PIERRE,
The ſtraw-made crown, of crazy LEAR,
OTHELLO's face, OPHELIA's willow,
And DESDRMONA'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:
Mind not the critic's hiſs at flaws,
'Tis buried in the fool's applauſe.
Is genius wanting—truſt to trick,
'Twill prove the actor's walking-ſtick:
There are, who uſe it every year:
Tho' none of my good people here.
But where true taſte is given, eſcape,
That which will make you play the ape:
[14]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:
They animate the brighteſt jeſt,
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.
[15]Nor is it right, to ſtare on high,
Intrigueing 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:
Some, at the cloſe of every ſpeech,
Will, ſaucy, turn upon their breech;
Dear ladies, pray forgive the word,
But, faith, the cuſtom's more abſurd;
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:
(For broken hearts with us, are common
I've often crack'd a cord for woman)
The fellow, was ſo loſt to feeling,
I might as well have hugg'd the ceiling;
[16]One of his hands, indeed, was near
To take my tributary tear;
While other members, making love
Were ſet, to trap the nymphs above.
Sure gentlemen; you'll grant me this:
A time to act, a time to kiſs;
Reſrain but till the curtain's down,
Then Ranger-it, thro' all the town.
BUT really there is no excuſe,
Where kiſſing, is ſo much in uſe.
The modern ſtage, is no way ſlack,
In granting you an honeſt ſmack:
I cannot recollect the play,
Where poets do not ſhew the way;
There's ſcarce a ſcene of tragic bliſs,
But they have introduc'd a kiſs,
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;
[17]Tho' they run round and round the riddle,
Girding a zone about 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:
In times of WYCHERLY indeed,
A Man, might modeſtly proceed,
Might leave the lips, and—in a pet
Said Y—G—"Pray ſir, don't you forget?
I wiſh pure precepts, you'd convey,
And treat us—in a decent way:
When ladies in the room are ſitting
Say is it ſitting ROSCIUS"—Fitting!
As heaven ſhall judge me by its laws,
I only fight the female cauſe,
My argument will plainly prove,
You have a right to claim our love:
[18]Whatever characters you play,
Or great, or little, grave, or gay,
While your dear forms are on the ſtage
You every motion ſhould engage;
And he, who turns away his head—
The prompter—ought to ſtrike him dead:
There's not a man in the creation,
Has for THE SEX ſuch veneration.
IT now remains, ere I go hence,
To thank you, for your diligence.
Sickneſs, 'tis true, will oft diſable:
Pretended ſickneſs, is a fable;
The papers, have been full of this;
But I, blame nature for each 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.
[19]And had you left your hoods and ſcreens,
You might have died behind the ſcenes.
I credit not the idle tale
"She 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 often ſent you a 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 giv'n gold, for ſilver lace,
And ſometimes ſulted ill, a face:
Complexions differ, and ſtage dreſſes,
Should always match the ſkan and treſſes:
[20]But far from me the blame may paſs,
The fault was in—the LOOKING-GLASS:
Ladies, indeed it told not truth,
Each habit much improv'd your youth;
And when you were diſpleas'd with me,
'Twas I adorn'd—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 ſool,
Who pelts a man with manuſcripts,
And crowds on him, miſhapen ſlips;
Things, half begot, and born in pain,
The very Faetus 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:
[21]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-cloaths 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.
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, muſt watch to-day, the houſe,
(For mother midwife's with my ſpouſe)
[22]'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 a 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.
[23]'Twas ſultry noon when he got there
And now, came on, our Grazier's care.
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:
[24]He could not force the beef, and 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,
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.
CANTO II.
[25]WHEN mighty reſignations come,
They're ſounded loud, by beat of 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,
[26]Find it extremely hard, to rein
Th' ideas of the buxom brain:
When ſpirits boil, and fancy rages,
Then glare and gew-gaw gild the pages:
IMAGINATION'S in her prime,
Who loves to ſing, in ſummer-time;
And hence, the ſtripling poet, goes
To compliment the blooming roſe,
Pours forth his genius in love,
Bedecks the garden, grot, and grove,
Scorns to ſee things, like other men,
But, with a ſort of chymic pen,
Hies to the ſhepherd's fleecy ſold,
And turns the greaſy wool, to gold:
Hath civil ſayings; for each flower,
Firſt makes, and then deſcribes a 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;
[27]For what you readers call, a bird,
Writers, have quite another word:
A plumy ſongſter, feather'd friend,
If proper name, an a at end,
Not bullfinch, goldfinch, thruſh, or chaf,
A ſweeter, ſofter ſound by half,
'Tis Philamela, tells the tale,
And not the vulgar nightingale:
'Tis not the linnet gives its note,
But Lillinetta pours her throat:
What dull folks call the beetle's flight,
Is but 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 that lady's fingers ſpread,
[28]Lambs, are the types of innocence;
Lilies, 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.
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 you to change the phraſe again,
'Tis the green mantle of the plain;
'Tis heaven's own livery, ſilken ſod,
And, 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 the muſe,
At moſt, ſhall modeſt edging chooſe:
[29]With her, the fairy days are o'er,
Content with ſenſe, ſhe dares not ſoar:
Leave we ſuch freaks to youngſters green,
They're but the ſportings of eighteen;
The muſe, alas, Who ſcribbles this,
Is now no more a flaunty 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 the 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' important hour.
[30]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,
But PEGASUS, performs the courſe:
A beaſt, that traverſes the air;
More fleet than your arabian mare.
[31]Thus, poets get to Hypocrene,
Ere Sunday cits, to TURNHAM GREEN.
PHOEBUS, allows the miracle,
And ſo, they ride inviſible.
Hence 'tis, 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:
That ſacred herbage blooms around,
And not a thiſtle 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 you look for winter here,
'Tis June, rich June, throughout the year:
Hence 'tis, that all the courſers' noſes,
Are perfum'd with parnaſſian poſies;
[32]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 ſeet, they run,
And friſk, and frolic in the fun:
In ſhort, the fields, are here ſo fine,
They prove that every blade's divine,
Such too, is their peculiar force,
A bard they make, of aſs, or horſe:
Certain, as wings grace Hermes' cap,
Whatever 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 matters, far aſunder,
[33]The river in BEOTIA placing,
And PHOCIS call the ſpot they graze in,
But poet real, mule or man,
Deſpiſes critic's rigid plan:
And ſkip through kingdoms in a minute,
Think of a place—whew—paſs—they're 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 dig the ſpur, add looſe 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:
[34]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,
And HELICON enjoys the 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 in beſt;
So, whatſoever's bad or bitter,
Is hell, to make the ſenſe compleater,
This licence, chiefly marks our charter,
So wonder not, at what comes A 'TER.
In verſe 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;
[35]So, that at top we put our daſhes,
The critic heeds not, ſuch ſmall flaſhes;
This right, prince BUTLER did ordain,
And SWIFT, confirm'd the act again:
DAN PRIOR, ſign'd it with his hand,
A law poetic, 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;
But to return—I ſhall digreſs.
THE bard, who ſaddled firſt his ſteed,
Was of a mixt, and mongrel breed:
His PEGASUS, ſcarce known to fame,
Tho' young, and mettleſome, was lame;
One that ne'er won a noble bet,
But threw the heel at all he met;
In going a dog-trot lie ſtumbled,
Yet ſnorting, reſtive, and ne'er humbled;
You'd think its maſter, was a bruiſer,
I lack a rhime—Proceed—'twill do ſir—
[36]Yet was it plump, as pad of parſon:
The beaſt might ſerve to bring a farce on:
Indeed he has been known to pray,
And written, almoſt half a play:
Nay to do juſtice to the ſteed,
'Tis certain he the news could read;
There are who ſay—you need not laugh,
He actually could paragraph,
The column ken'd with critic eyes,
And wrote both queſtion, and replies;
Howe'er this be, he did not fail
To be a candidate, for the mail.
To ſearch too nicely for the reaſon,
Would at this time be out of ſeaſon:
But ROSCIUS, thought not fit to ſend
This courier, tho' eſteem'd a friend:
Rumour declar'd—but ſhe's a hag,
That ROSCIUS had long fed his nag:
And ſome were bold enough to ſwear,
This courier's beaſt engag'd his care,
[37]While blooded horſes left to play,
Could ſcarce get either corn or hay;
That many a prancer, ſtout and able,
Was left to ſwell at leg, in ſtable,
While this queer creature was rubb'd down,
And made a fight of, for the town.
But not to tire you with ſuggeſtion,
I haſte to things beyond a queſtion:
Altho' by taking off, a cup
Of that ſame water, poets ſup,
And dining well, on heavenly ſallads,
Might mend our author's knack at ballads;
'Tis clear, Sir ROSCIUS did not chooſe
To dub him poſtman to the MUSE.
THE ſecond was a bard obſcure,
That wanted much, a ſinecure,
The maſter of a galloway,
Exceeding apt to run away,
That lately threw a lady down,
Then ſcamper'd with her thro' the town.
[38]Quoth ROSCIUS, "It can't be, my friend
I might as well, an ANDREW ſend.
How am I ſure, ere you get there,
You will not ſettle in the air;
The Tit you ride's a lovely BROWN,
But who's to, bring the meſſage down?"
THE four next candidates, were ſuch,
As prov'd a little, was too much,
Your men of FARCE and INTERLUDE;
Who teaze the town with trifles crude;
Who give their tiny pop-guns play,
To pelt the folly of the day:
Whom ROSCIUS artfully 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 man may own his wife:
[39]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, that we uſe fineſſe,
That each fair lady, may undreſs;
Hence ROSCIUS, 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.
[40]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 hard,
To carry off the meſſage-card:
"Then mount, dear GEORGE, ſaid he, your ſteed
And pray return to me 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, tho' he did not ſtretch and tear;
He canter'd regularly there.
For, though a dramatiſt, and fleet,
His PEGASUS, ohey'd the bit.
Some bards, full cautious, and exact,
Are ſway'd, by ARISTOTLE'S act,
Which doth provide, in certain caſes,
Strict edicts, upon times, and places:
[41]To break through which, without juſt reaſon,
Is call'd a literary treaſon:
Would you, with theſe ſame laws comply?
Then—reverence probability.
Aw'd, therefore, by the ſage's plan,
Steadily went, our little man:
Arriv'd, he hail'd the ſacred 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 a 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,
The meſſenger, alas, of news,
That needs muſt ſhock each gentle muſe:
The facts, connected with the matter,
Will turn your nectar, all to water:
[42]And your divine poetic lake,
An ordinary puddle make.
ROSCIUS, old Drury's mighty king,
(With pain, ye maids, I tell the tiling)
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, with a ſtare;
All roſe confus'd, ſome ſwore 'twas fable;
Some, ſpilt the nectar on the table:
Queen TRAGEDY, was in deſpair,
The COMIC LADY tore her hair:
It chanc'd, the GRACES were their gueſts,
And they began to thump their breaſts:
And though, perhaps, 'twas only art,
Each fair one, acted well her part;
They topt it ſir, as they had been
Six ſummers, training for the ſcene:
[43]I'm led to judge it a deceit,
(At beſt a modiſh counterfeit)
Becauſe tho' ſome amongſt them had
Sufficient reaſon to run mad;
The poor THALIA, well might cry,
And her ſad ſiſter, ſob and ſigh:
Yet really all the reſt might ſpare,
Their woful looks, and fullen air.
For thoſe to whimper—'twas a whim,
He ſcarce knew them, they ſcarce knew him:
And wherefore could the charming GRACES,
Diſtort, and ſpoil their lovely faces?
The thing, as it appears 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,
Till the houſe echoes with the woe:
[44]But mark—I don't conclude from hence,
All 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,
Perhaps the noſe ſhall blow, the leaſt;
Yet, when th' infection touches one,
From box to box you ſee it run:
But every heart is not alike,
And one woe, cannot all folks ſtrike:
Where fathers feel themſelves a LEAR,
No doubt the miſery's ſincere:
But ſhe, who bride ſhall be to-morrow,
Has no ſoul then, I ween, for ſorrow;
And many a tittering fair, you find,
So little to diſtreſs inclin'd,
Ev'n SHAKESPEARE'S ſcenes could never melt,
Yet ſtill, you'd ſwear, they really felt:
When tender people round you cry;
'Tis right to bear them company,
[45]Before the face, the fan 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,
They claim'd the ſympathy of couſins;
Their beauteous ſiſters too gave vent:
'Twas all, a decent compliment.
THE news, ſome thought, 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,
[46]Who for ſix, ſing-ſong months together,
Had led the town, thro' wind and weather,
His tweedle-dum—and dee, to hear,
And took—the nation by the ear;
That be, 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, and 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:
[47]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,
Exclim'd poor THALY—let us fly
Direct, to feather'd MERCURY!
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.
[48]He told the fate of EPICOENE,
Yet did not give the nymphs, the SPLEEN;
A CONNOISSEUR, the bard, they found,
So, many a civil thing went round,
And after much dramatic chat,
They ſtuck a laurel in his hat:
Then, as the nectar 'gan to riſe
(Which they get couſtant from the ſkies;
For, from OLYMPUS, to PARNASS,
It is, with them, 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,
Theſe ſacred matters to rehearſe,
Which figure, in our future verſe:
When great affairs approach, we pauſe,
This is amongſt your epic laws:
Important points demand parade,
And to grace theſe, we, CANTOS made.
END OF THE SECOND CANTO;
CANTO III.
[49]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 make a party for the play,
Or fix the hour of dear quadrille,
That not a moment may ſtand ſtill:
The MUSES ſign'd a ſoft addreſs,
Which COLEY, carried off expreſs.
THE MUSES TO ROSCIUS.
WHILE MEL. and THA, are gone to heaven,
We, your admirers, ſiſters ſeven,
[50]Send this, to beg you may not ſell,
Till he who buys, can act as well;
But, ſuch a bidder, when you find,
Pray let us hear, that you've reſign'd:
Conſent, we have a right to claim;
Obey, and truſt to us your fame;
From each, a compliment receive,
And cheriſh, what the MUSES give.
I CLIO, in the immortal page,
Will bid you live thro' every age:
And I, CALLIOPE the fair,
Will make your harmony my care;
Your various powers of voice, record,
And tell the muſic of each word.
ERATO and TERPSICHORE,
Your dancing, and your poetry,
Ours it ſhall oft be, to rehearſe
Your knack at epilogue, and verſe:
PHOEBUS neglects the epigram,
And ſounds the trump of EPIC fame;
[51]The gentle ſallies of a morning,
His godſhip truſts, to our adorning:
EUTERPE, though you ſeldom ſing,
Pays you the honours of a king:
I, POLYHYMN. your memory love,
URANIA, marks the whole, above,
She, with a ſunbeam, writes your name,
And conſecrates the word to fame:
And we, the ſiſter GRACES, vow,
Not to forget, your air, and bow.
Given at our court, PARNASSUS mountain,
By us—Princeſſes of the fountain:
By us, your friends, the MUSES ſeven,
While THA. and MEL. 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:
[52]When on the earth we go, 'tis gravel,
But debonair, to heav'n, you travel;
The path is cut thro' aether 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 ſmooth, and rapidly you run,
All is ſo gentle, fair, and even,
You glide 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;
A brace of peacocks, JUNO 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,
[53]And lighting on the poets' Walk,
The circle found, in various talk.
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 laurel wreath, was 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 pierceing SOPHOCLES, was ſtruck,
At rays of glory in his look;
[54]Ev'n ARISTOTLE, bent the knees,
And half forgot his unities;
HOMER himſelf, to fight 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, in ſtep ſedate,
Much circumſpection in his air,
With all an anxious ſcholar's care:
*The TUNEFUL TWINS together ſat,
Like brother—bards, in friendly chat;
THOMSON, on beds of roſes laid,
Was twiſting chaplets in the ſhade;
His harp to heavenly ſubjects ſtrung,
Beſpoke the 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;
[55]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 eye of fire,
Hurrying he went, from grove, to grove,
And ranted rage, or ſung of love.
ANOTHER part, adorn'd with bowers,
Contain'd THALIA'S lively powers;
HORACE, appear'd as king of wit,
And SWIFT, maintain'd a regal ſeat:
Of play-houſe bards, a numerous train;
Were ſtill diſputing who ſhould reign:
The brilliant ſtroke, the ſatire ſmart,
And 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 matchleſs DRYDEN took the lead:
Whene'er the mighty poet ſung,
The paradiſe reſponſive rung:
[56]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 a ſoft thing, to Mrs. BEHN.
The bard could ne'er his forte forget,
But lov'd to joke about it, yet:
The courtly VANBRUGH too, was near,
And CIBBER, whiſpering in his 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 dawn of day,
[57]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 SHAKESPEARE, 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 tydings to another,
Till SOL himſelf was in a pother.
[58]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,
There, as 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,
AENEAS, found it vaſtly true,
Who (as DAN VIRGIL'S legends go)
Once, took a pious trip below;
Walk'd round the charming garden twice,
And own'd ANCHISES in a trice;
[59]Made without toil, th' important tour,
And got to earth, within the hour.
THE characters that ROSCIUS play'd,
Were now 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,
Then 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:
If all were well as 'tis above,
That form, that face, might well improve,
[60]My ſcenes, ſaid LEE—ah ALEXANDER,
That BARRY was a better ſtander!
Then might'ſt thou ſtill unrivall'd run,
And claim alliance with the ſun!
*An hero of the MOORISH race,
Had a ‡ new gueſt, in his embrace:
Near whom, the ſtately WOLSEY ſtood,
To give him welcome from the flood:
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 noble fellow,
[61]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 his prayer,
To HIM who darts his rays from far.
" I ſee 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:
[62]So ſhort the way is to the king,
One might go there with half a wing.
CONSENT thus gain'd, and full in feather,
The bard and HERMES, flew together.
As friendly towards earth, they went,
To ſee 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:
[63]Nor jarring jargon of phyſician;
Not ſcience of geometrician;
Not fluxions, 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 compleat a character,
Sooner than get that phantom's talk,
Or e'en be perfect in my ſtalk:
[64]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;
[65]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 deuce a difficulty in it,
The hocus-pocus of a minute;
At leaſt, 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, ſtudy as a ſcience;
The reſt, to ſtudy bid defiance.
He who 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;
[66]His boſom beats with tragic rage,
And ſo he jumps upon the ſtage:
A time he takes to con his part,
(Since he muſt get the words by heart)
His leiſure at the GLASS employs,
And ſcares the landlady with noiſe;
Then, all in rubric capitals,
He flames reſplendent on 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 of 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;
[67]He never play'd the king, before,
And haply ne'er ſhall 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 awhile, and wins 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:
[68]In a vile barn, he butchers LEAR,
And ſtabbs the regimental'd PIERRE:
But ev'n if all his toils ſucceed,
Prithee, dear WILLIAM, mark the meed:
Full oft he buſtles half 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, gipſy, 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.
[69]"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 confeſs,
They are the types of holineſs;
Tho' I, ſometimes, paſs 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,
Even in a morn, is cleanlineſs,
So ſpruce, you at a glance would ſwear,
In every pin you ſaw the player:
[70]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.
In ſhort, the heroines of the ſcene,
Are full as chaſte, as they are clean.
HERE HERMES paus'd, and rubb'd his eye.
And why 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, as I ſcent the city ſmoak,
Prithee good 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.
[71]
'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 POMINB:
There's SHERIDAN, the old and young,
One fam'd for ſpeech, and one for ſong:
But, ah dear WILL, a-lack a-day!
'Tis all to ſing, and nought to ſay!
His airs full ſeventy nights have run,
And yet the game is juſt begun:
Why Sir, I'm told, this wicked elf,
Has thrown your lordſhip, on the ſhelf:
In vain you growl forth, liſt, oh, liſt,
Your favorite 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:
[72]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 air, then angry ſpoke:
"ROSCIUS reſign'd! why had he ſtay'd,
I would go forward, to upbraid—
Oh had I known, what SHAKESPEARE wrote
Would fly, before the ſidler's note,
By yonder—but I will not ſwear,
Why didſt thou lead me on thus far?
HERMES your hand—dear friend adieu."
He turn'd about, and backward flew.
THE God of errands, left alone,
Now bent his courſe towards HELICON.
Told every MUSE th' appeal was vain,
And in a huff, ſought heaven again.
THE END.
Notes
*
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
*
Who in his life-time, affected to deſpiſe a literary reputation;
*
ZANGA.
‡
The late Mr. MOSSOP.
†
A name given to CORROLIANUS, whoſe character was finely repreſented by Mr. MOSSOP.
*
Amongſt the Parts of Mr. SHUTER.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4053 Garrick s looking glass or the art of rising on the stage A poem In three cantos Decorated with dramatic characters By the author of. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-59DF-6