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       That's Lloyd's—his manner there you plainly trace,

       And all the Actor stares you in the face.

       By Colman that was written—on my life,

       The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.'

       That little disingenuous piece of spite,

       Churchill—a wretch unknown!—perhaps might write.

       How doth it make judicious readers smile, 140

       When authors are detected by their style;

       Though every one who knows this author, knows

       He shifts his style much oftener than his clothes!

       Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen,

       The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?

       What had I done, that angry Heaven should send

       The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend?

       Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,[86]

       And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame.

       For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, 150

       So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound;

       From Livy's temples tear the historic crown,

       Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.

       Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,

       But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb.

       Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but swore

       The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before?

       Others for plots and under-plots may call,

       Here's the right method—have no plot at all.

       Who can so often in his cause engage 160

       The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage,

       Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flow

       At tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh!

       To praise his nervous weakness all agree;

       And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he!

       Too big for utterance when sorrows swell,

       The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell;

       But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow,

       Why—then the voice must speak again, you know.

       Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, 170

       I kept no Naïads by me ready made;

       Ne'er did I colours high in air advance,

       Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;[87]

       No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote,

       With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat.

       Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me,

       Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free;

       Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound,

       And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground.

       Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! 180

       Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn;

       Uncensured let the gentle breezes rove

       Through the green umbrage of the enchanted grove:

       Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile,

       And play the coxcomb in the 'Desert Isle.'

       The stage I chose—a subject fair and free—

       'Tis yours—'tis mine—'tis public property.

       All common exhibitions open lie,

       For praise or censure, to the common eye.

       Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; 190

       Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread.

       This is a general tax which all must pay,

       From those who scribble, down to those who play.

       Actors, a venal crew, receive support

       From public bounty for the public sport.

       To clap or hiss all have an equal claim,

       The cobbler's and his lordship's right's the same.

       All join for their subsistence; all expect

       Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct.

       When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, 200

       The three days' wonder of his laughing friends,

       Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides,

       The lively witling praises or derides.

       And where's the mighty difference, tell me where,

       Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player?

       The strolling tribe—a despicable race!—

       Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place.

       Vagrants by law, to justice open laid,

       They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid,

       And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life 210

       To Madam Mayoress, or his Worship's wife.

       The mighty monarch, in theatric sack,

       Carries his whole regalia at his back;

       His royal consort heads the female band,

       And leads the heir apparent in her hand;

       The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride,

       Bearing a future prince on either side.

       No choice musicians in this troop are found,

       To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound;

       No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; 220

       No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll;

       No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown;

       The monarch here must be a host alone:

       No solemn pomp, no slow processions here;

       No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier.

       By need compell'd to prostitute his art,

       The varied actor flies from part to part;

       And—strange disgrace to all theatric pride!—

       His character is shifted with his side.

       Question and answer he by turns must be, 230

       Like that small wit in modern tragedy,[88]

       Who, to patch up his fame—or fill his purse—

       Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse;

       Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known,

       Defacing first, then claiming for his own.

       In shabby state they strut, and tatter'd robe,

       The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe:

       No high conceits their moderate wishes raise,

       Content with humble profit, humble praise.

       Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare, 240

       The strolling pageant hero treads in air:

       Pleased, for his hour he to mankind gives law,

       And snores the next out on a truss of straw.

       But if kind Fortune, who sometimes, we know,

       Can take a hero from a puppet-show,

       In mood propitious should her favourite call,

       On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl,

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