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Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,

       That even shadows have their shadows too!

       With not a single comic power endued,

       The first a mere, mere mimic's mimic stood;

       The last, by Nature form'd to please, who shows,

       In Johnson's Stephen, which way genius grows,

       Self quite put off, affects with too much art

       To put on Woodward in each mangled part;

       Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more,

       His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before. 420

       When a dull copier simple grace neglects,

       And rests his imitation in defects,

       We readily forgive; but such vile arts

       Are double guilt in men of real parts.

       By Nature form'd in her perversest mood,

       With no one requisite of art endued,

       Next Jackson came[32]—Observe that settled glare,

       Which better speaks a puppet than a player;

       List to that voice—did ever Discord hear

       Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear? 430

       When to enforce some very tender part,

       The right hand slips by instinct on the heart,

       His soul, of every other thought bereft,

       Is anxious only where to place the left;

       He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse;

       To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows:

       Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill

       Of moving gracefully, or standing still,

       One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,

       Desirous seems to run away from t'other. 440

       Some errors, handed down from age to age,

       Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage.

       That's vile: should we a parent's faults adore,

       And err, because our fathers err'd before?

       If, inattentive to the author's mind,

       Some actors made the jest they could not find;

       If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien,

       And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene,

       Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd,

       Not see their faults, or seeing, not avoid? 450

       When Falstaff stands detected in a lie,

       Why, without meaning, rolls Love's[33] glassy eye?

       Why? There's no cause—at least no cause we know—

       It was the fashion twenty years ago.

       Fashion!—a word which knaves and fools may use,

       Their knavery and folly to excuse.

       To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence

       To fame—to copy faults, is want of sense.

       Yet (though in some particulars he fails,

       Some few particulars, where mode prevails) 460

       If in these hallow'd times, when, sober, sad,

       All gentlemen are melancholy mad;

       When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half

       To violate a vestal as to laugh,

       Rude mirth may hope, presumptuous, to engage

       An act of toleration for the stage;

       And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures,

       Suspend vain fashion, and unscrew their features;

       Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more,

       And humour set the audience in a roar. 470

       Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name,

       Who, being from one part possess'd of fame,

       Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl,

       Still introduce that favourite part in all.

       Here, Love, be cautious—ne'er be thou betray'd

       To call in that wag Falstaff's dangerous aid;

       Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend,

       He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend.

       In a peculiar mould by Humour cast,

       For Falstaff framed—himself the first and last—480

       He stands aloof from all—maintains his state,

       And scorns, like Scotsmen, to assimilate.

       Vain all disguise—too plain we see the trick,

       Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic[34];

       And Boniface[35] disgraced, betrays the smack,

       In anno Domini, of Falstaff sack. Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching slow, A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow; Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog, Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog, 490 They curse the managers, and curse the town Whose partial favour keeps such merit down. But if some man, more hardy than the rest, Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest, At once they rise with impotence of rage, Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage: 'Tis breach of privilege! Shall any dare To arm satiric truth against a player? Prescriptive rights we plead, time out of mind; Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind. 500 What! shall Opinion then, of nature free, And liberal as the vagrant air, agree To rust in chains like these, imposed by things, Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings? No—though half-poets with half-players join To curse the freedom of each honest line; Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek, What the Muse freely thinks, she'll freely speak; With just disdain of every paltry sneer, Stranger alike to flattery and fear, 510 In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule, Public contempt shall wait the public fool. Austin[36] would always glisten in French silks; Ackman would Norris be, and Packer, Wilkes: For who, like Ackman, can with humour please; Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease? Higher than all the rest, see Bransby strut: A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput! Ludicrous Nature! which at once could show A man so very high, so very low! 520 If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I say Aught hurtful, may I never see thee play. Let critics, with a supercilious air, Decry thy various merit, and declare Frenchman is still at top; but scorn that rage Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age. French follies, universally embraced, At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste. Long, from a nation ever hardly used, At random censured, wantonly abused, 530 Have Britons drawn their sport; with partial view Form'd general notions from the rascal few; Condemn'd a people, as for vices known, Which from their country banish'd, seek our own. At length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke, And Sense, awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke: Taught by thee, Moody[37], we now learn to raise Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, praise. Next came the legion which our summer Bayes[38], From alleys, here and there, contrived to raise, 540 Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed, With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read. Veterans no more support the rotten cause, No more from Elliot's[39] worth they reap applause; Each on himself determines to rely; Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly. Never did players so well an author fit, To Nature dead, and foes declared to wit. So loud each tongue, so empty was each head, So much they talk'd, so very little said, 550 So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain, At once so willing, and unfit to reign, That Reason swore, nor would the oath recall, Their mighty master's soul inform'd them all. As one with various disappointments sad, Whom dulness only kept from being mad, Apart from all the rest great Murphy came— Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame. What though the sons of Nonsense hail him Sire, Auditor, Author, Manager, and Squire, 560 His

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