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Let it, to disappoint each future aim,
Live without sex, and die without a name !
Cold-blooded critics, by enervate sires
Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires
Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood, half
froze,

Creeps lab'ring through the veins; whose heart ne'er glows

With fancy-kindled heat;-a servile race,
Who in mere want of fault, all merit place;
Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools,
Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules;
With solemn consequence declar'd that none
Could judge that cause but Sophocles alone.
Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd,
Obsequious to the sacred dictate, bow'd.

When, from amidst the throng, a youth stood forth,
Unknown his person, not unknown his worth;
His look bespoke applause; alone he stood,
Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood.
He talk'd of ancients, as the man became
Who priz'd our own, but envied not their fame;
With noble rev'rence spoke of Greece and Rome,
And scorn'd to tear the laurel from the tomb.

"But more than just to other countries grown,
Must we turn base apostates to our own?
Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel,
That England may not please the ear as well?
What mighty magic's in the place or air,
That all perfection needs must centre there?
In states, let strangers blindly be preferr'd;
In state of letters, merit should be heard.
Genius is of no country, her pure ray
Spreads all abroad, as gen'ral as the day;
Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies,
And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise.
May not (to give a pleasing fancy scope,
And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope)
May not some great extensive genius raise
The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise;
And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms,
Make England great in letters as in arms?
There may-there hath and Shakspeare's Muse
aspires

Beyond the reach of Greece: with natives fires
Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight,
Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his
height.

"Why should we then abroad for judges roam, When abler judges we may find at home? Happy in tragic and in comic pow'rs,

Have we not Shakspeare? - Is not Jonson ours?
For them, your natʼral judges, Britons, vote;
They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote."
He said, and conquer'd-Sense resum'd her sway,
And disappointed pedants stalk'd away.
Shakspeare and Jonson, with deserv'd applause,
Joint-judges were ordain'd to try the cause.
Meantime the stranger ev'ry voice employ'd,
To ask or tell his name -Who is it?-Lloyd.
Thus, when the aged friends of Job stood mute,
And, tamely prudent, gave up the dispute,
Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth,
Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth;
Confuted Falsehood, and disabled Pride,
Whilst baffled Age stood snarling at his side.
The day of trial 's fix'd, nor any fear
Lest day of trial should be put off here.
Causes but seldom for delay can call

In courts where forms are few, fees none at all.

The morning came, nor find I that the Sun,
As he on other great events hath done,
Put on a brighter robe than what he wore
To go his journey in the day before.

Full in the centre of a spacious plain,
On plan entirely new, where nothing vain,
Nothing magnificent appear'd, but Art
With decent modesty perform'd her part,
Rose a tribunal: from no other court
It borrow'd ornament, or sought support:
No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear,
No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here;
No gownmen, partial to a client's cause,
To their own purpose tun'd the pliant laws,
Each judge was true and steady to his trust,
As Mansfield wise, and as old Foster * just.
In the first seat, in robe of various dyes,
A noble wildness flashing from his eyes,
Sat Shakspeare. In one hand a wand he bore,
For mighty wonders fam'd in days of yore;
The other held a globe, which to his will
Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill:
Things of the noblest kind his genius drew,
And look'd through Nature at a single view:
A loose he gave to his unbounded soul,
And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll;
Call'd into being scenes unknown before,
And, passing Nature's bounds, was something more
Next Jonson sat, in ancient learning train'd,
His rigid judgment Fancy's flights restrain'd,
Correctly prun'd each wild luxuriant thought,
Mark'd out her course, nor spar'd a glorious fack
The book of man he read with nicest art,
And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart;
Exerted penetration's utmost force,
And trac'd each passion to its proper source;
Then strongly mark'd, in liveliest colours drew,
And brought each foible forth to public view.
The coxcomb felt a lash in ev'ry word,
And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd.
His comic humour kept the world in awe,
And Laughter frighten'd Folly more than Law.
But, hark!-The trumpet sounds, the crowd gives

way,

And the procession comes in just array.

Now should I, in some sweet poetic line,
Offer up incense at Apollo's shrine;
Invoke the Muse to quit her calm abode,
And waken mem'ry with a sleeping ode.
For how should mortal man, in mortal verse,
Their titles, merits, or their names rehearse?
But give, kind Dullness, memory and rhyme,
We 'll put off Genius till another time.

First, Order came,-with solemn step, and slow,
In measur'd time his feet were taught to go.
Behind, from time to time, he cast his eye,
Lest this should quit his place, that step awry.
Appearances to save his only care;
So things seem right, no matter what they are.
In him his parents saw themselves renew'd,
Begotten by sir Critic on saint Prude.

Then came drum, trumpet, hautboy, fiddle, fiute : Next snuffer, sweeper, shifter, soldier, mute: Legions of angels all in white advance; Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance; Pantomime figures then are brought to view, Fools hand in hand with fools go two by twa

* Sir Michael Foster, one of the judges of the King's Bench.

lext came the treasurer of either house;
One with full purse, t' other with not a sous.
ehind, a group of figures awe create,
et off with all th' impertinence of state;
y lace and feather consecrate to fame,
rpletive kings, and queens without a name.
Here Havard, all serene, in the same strains,
oves, hates, and rages, triumphs, and complains;
fis easy vacant face proclaim'd a heart
Thich could not feel emotions, nor impart.
With him came mighty Davies. On my life,
hat Davies hath a very pretty wife :-
atesman all over!-In plots famous grown!-
e mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone.
Next Holland came.-With truly tragic stalk,
e creeps, he flies.-A hero should not walk.
s if with Heav'n he warr'd, his eager eyes
anted their batteries against the skies;
ttitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan,
e borrow'd, and made use of as his own.
y fortune thrown on any other stage,

e might, perhaps, have pleas'd an easy age;
it now appears a copy, and no more,
something better we have seen before.
he actor who would build a solid fame,
ust Imitation's servile arts disclaim;

t from himself, on his own bottom stand;
ate e'en Garrick thus at second-hand.
Behind came King.-Bred up in modest lore,
shful and young he sought Hibernia's shore;
(bernia, fam'd, 'bove ev'ry other grace,
r matchless intrepidity of face.

om her his features caught the gen'rous flame,
nd bid defiance to all sense of shame.
itor'd by her all rivals to surpass,

[ongst Drury's sons he comes, and shines in Brass.
Lo Yates!-Without the least finesse of art
e gets applause-I wish he'd get his part.
hen hot Impatience is in full career,

ow vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e!" grates the ear. hen active Fancy from the brain is sent, nd stands on tip-toe for some wish'd event, nate those careless blunders which recall spended sense, and prove it fiction all. In characters of low and vulgar mould, here Nature's coarsest features we behold, here, destitute of ev'ry decent grace, imanner'd jests are blurted in your face, ere Yates with justice strict attention draws, ts truly from himself, and gains applause. it when to please himself, or charm his wife, e aims at something in politer life, hen, blindly thwarting Nature's stubborn plan, e treads the stage, by way of gentleman, he clown, who no one touch of breeding knows, oks like Tom Errand dress'd in Clincher's clothes. and of his dress, fond of his person grown, ugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown, om side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, nd seems to wonder what's become of Yates. Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face, reat master in the science of grimace, rom Ireland ventures, fav'rite of the town, ur'd by the pleasing prospect of renown; speaking Harlequin, made up of whim, e twists, he twines, he tortures ev'ry limb, Mays to the eye with a mere monkey's art, nd leaves to sense the conquest of the heart. We laugh indeed, but on reflection's birth, Fe wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth.

His walk of parts he fatally misplac'd,
And inclination fondly took for taste;
Hence hath the town so often seen display'd
Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.

But when bold wits, not such as patch up plays,
Cold and correct, in these insipid days,
Some comic character, strong featur'd, urge
To probability's extremest verge,

Where modest Judgment her decree suspends,
And for a time, nor censures, nor commends,
Where critics can't determine on the spot
Whether it is in Nature found or not,
There Woodward safely shall his pow'rs exert,
Nor fail of favour where he shows desert.
Hence he in Bobadil such praises bore,
Such worthy praises, Kitely scarce had more.

By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes, Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and

scrapes :

Now in the centre, now in van or rear,
The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer.
His strokes of humour, and his bursts of sport,
Are all contain'd in this one word, Distort.

Doth a man stutter, look a-squint, or halt?
Mimics draw humour out of Nature's fault,
With personal defects their mirth adorn,
And hang misfortunes out to public scorn.
E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould,
Whom, having made, she trembled to behold,
Beneath the load of mimicry may groan,
And find that Nature's errours are my own.
Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came;
Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name.
Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,
That even shadows have their shadows too!
With not a single comic pow'r endu❜d,
The first a mere mere mimic's mimic stood;
The last by Nature form'd to please, who shows,
In Jonson'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 be
fore.

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 endu'd,
Next Jackson came.-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 untun'd ear?
When, to enforce some very tender part,
The right-hand sleeps 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.

Some errours, 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;

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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)
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.

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 fav'rite 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 fram'd-Himself, the first and last, 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. And Boniface, disgrac'd, betrays the smack, In Anno Domini, of Falstaff's sack.

Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet march-
ing slow,

A band of malecontents with spleen o'erflow;
Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog,
Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from ev'ry bog,
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."
What shall Opinion then, of nature free
And lib'ral as the vagrant air, agree
To rust in chains like these, impos'd 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 ev'ry paltry sneer,
Stranger alike to flattery and fear,
In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule,
Public contempt shall wait the public fool.
Austin would always glisten in French silks,
Ackman would Norris be, and Packer Wilks.

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.

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 embrac'd,

At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.
Long, from a nation ever hardly us'd,
At random censur'd, wantonly abus'd,
Have Britons drawn their sport, with partial view
Form'd gen'ral 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, we now learn to raise
Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, prass

Next came the legion, which our Summer Bays
From alleys, here and there, contriv'd to raise,
Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed
With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read
Vet'rans no more support the rotten cause,
No more from Elliot's worth they reap applause
Each on himself determines to rely,
Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly,
Never did play'rs so well an author fit,
To Nature dead, and foes declar'd to Wit.
So loud each tongue, so empty was each head,
So much they talk'd, so very little said,
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 Dullness only kept from being mad, Apart from all the rest great Murphy cameCommon to fools and wits, the rage of fame. What though the sons of Nonsense hail him $3, AUDITOR, AUTHOR, MANAGER, and SQUIRE, His restless soul's ambition stops not there, To make his triumphs perfect, dub him PLAYER

In person tall, a figure form'd to please; If symmetry could charm, depriv'd of ease; When motionless he stands, we all approve; What pity 'tis the thing was made to move.

His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound, Seems to break forth from caverns under ground. From hollow chest the low sepulchral note Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat.

Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace,
All must to him resign the foremost place.
When he attempts, in some one fav'rite part,
To ape the feelings of a manly heart,
His honest features the disguise defy,
And his face loudly gives his tongue the lie.

Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean,
Or raving mad, or stupidly serene.
In cold-wrought scenes the lifeless actor flags,
In passion, tears the passion into rags.
Can none remember? - Yes I know all must-
When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust,
When o'er the stage he Folly's standard bore,

Whilst Common-Sense stood trembling at the door.

How few are found with real talents bless'd, Tewer with Nature's gifts contented rest. Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray; All hunt for fame; but most mistake the way. 3red at St. Omer's to the shuffling trade, The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made, Vith various readings stor'd his empty skull, earn'd without sense, and venerably dull; Ir, at some banker's desk, like many more, ontent to tell that two and two make four, lis name had stood in CITY ANNALS fair,

nd prudent Dullness mark'd him for a mayor. What then could tempt thee, in a critic age, uch blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage? ould it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains o publish to the world thy lack of brains? r might not Reason e'en to thee have shown hy greatest praise had been to live unknown? et let not vanity, like thine, despair: ortune makes Folly her peculiar care.

A vacant throne high plac'd in Smithfield view, > sacred Dullness and her first-born due, hither with haste in happy hour repair, by birthright claim, nor fear a rival there. uter himself shall own thy juster claim,

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nd venal Ledgers puff their Murphy's name, hilst Vaughan or Dapper, call him which you will,

all blow the trumpet, and give out the bill. There rule secure, from critics and from sense, or once shall Genius rise to give offence; ernal peace shall bless the happy shore, nd little factions break thy rest no more. om Covent Garden crowds promiscuous go, hom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know. t'rans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more an if, till that time, arms they never bore: ke Westminster militia train'd to fight, ey scarcely knew the left hand from the right. ham'd among such troops to show the head, eir chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled. Sparks at his glass sat comfortably down

> sep'rate frown from smile, and smile from frown;
aith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart,
aith was just gone to school to say his part ;
ss (a misfortune which we often meet)
as fast asleep at dear Statira's feet;
atira, with her hero to agree,
ood on her feet as fast asleep as he;
acklin, who largely deals in half-form'd sounds,
ho wantonly transgresses Nature's bounds,
hose acting 's hard, affected, and constrain'd,
hose features, as each other they disdain'd,
t variance set, inflexible and coarse,
e'er know the workings of united force,
e'er kindly soften to each other's aid,

or show the mingled pow'rs of light and shade,
o longer for a thankless stage concern'd,
o worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd,
[arangu'd, gave lectures, made each simple elf
Imost as good a speaker as himself;

Whilst the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal,
n awkward rage for elocution feel;
ull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim,
nd join with Sheridan's their Macklin's name;
uter, who never car'd a single pin
hether he left out nonsense, or put in,

Who aim'd at wit, though, levell'd in the dark,
The random arrow seldom hit the mark,
At Islington, all by the placid stream
Where city swains in lap of Dullness dream,
Where, quiet as her strains their strains do flow,
That all the patron by the bards may know,
Secret as night, with Rolt's experienc'd aid,
The plan of future operations laid,
Projected schemes the summer months to cheer,
And spin out happy folly through the year.

But think not, though these dastard chiefs are fled, That Covent Garden troops shall want a head: Harlequin comes their chief!-See from afar, The hero seated in fantastic car!

Wedded to Novelty, his only arms

Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms;
On one side Folly sits, by some call'd Fun,
And on the other, his arch-patron, Lun.
Behind, for liberty a-thirst in vain,
Sense, helpless captive, drags the galling chain.
Six rude mis-shapen beasts the chariot draw,
Whom Reason loaths, and Nature never saw;
Monsters, with tails of ice, and heads of fire;
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.
Each was bestrode by full as monstrous wight,
Giant, Dwarf, Genius, Elf, Hermaphrodite.
The town, as usual, met him in full cry;
The town, as usual, knew no reason why.
But Fashion so directs, and moderns raise
On Fashion's mouldering base their transient praise.
Next, to the field a band of females draw
Their force; for Britain owns no Salique law:
Just to their worth, we female rights admit,
Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit.

First, giggling, plotting chamber-maids arrive,
Hoydens and romps, led on by gen'ral Clive.
In spite of outward blemishes, she shone
For humour fam'd, and humour all her own.
Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod,
Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod.
Original in spirit and in ease,

She pleas'd by hiding all attempts to please.
No comic actress ever yet could raise,
On Humour's base, more merit or more praise.
With all the native vigour of sixteen,
Among the merry troop conspicuous seen,
See lively Pope advance in jig and trip,
Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip.
Not without art, but yet to Nature true,
She charms the town with humour just, yet new.
Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore
The fatal time when Clive shall be no more.
Lo! Vincent comes -
- with simple grace array'd,
She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade.
Nature through her is by reflection shown,
Whilst Gay once more knows Polly for his own.
Talk not to me of diffidence and fear-

I see it all, but must forgive it here.
Defects like these which modest terrours cause,
From impudence itself extort applause.
Candour and Reason still take Virtue's part;
We love e'en foibles in so good a heart.

Let Tommy Arne, with usual pomp of style,
Whose chief, whose only merit 's to compile,
Who, meanly pilfering here and there a bit,
Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit,
Publish proposals, laws for taste prescribe,
And chant the praise of an Italian tribe ;

⚫ A gentleman who published, at this juncture, a Let him reverse kind Nature's first decrees,

em entitled The Retort.

And teach e'en Brent a method not to please; M m

But never shall a truly British age
Bear a vile race of eunuchs on the stage.
The boasted work 's call'd national in vain,
If one Italian voice pollutes the strain.
Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey,
Let slavish minstrels pour th' enervate lay;
To Britons far more noble pleasures spring,
In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent sing.
Might figure give a title unto fame,
What rival should with Yates dispute her claim?
But justice may not partial trophies raise,
Nor sink the actress in the woman's praise.
Still hand in hand her words and actions go,
And the heart feels more than the features show:
For, through the regions of that beauteous face,
We no variety of passions trace;

Dead to the soft emotions of the heart,
No kindred softness can those eyes impart ;
The brow, still fix'd in Sorrow's sullen frame,
Void of distinction, marks all parts the same.
What's a fine person, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Bless'd with all other requisites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their awkward movement tires;
They seem like puppets led about by wires.
Others, like statues, in one posture still,
Give great ideas of the workman's skill;
Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view,
And only grieve he gave not motion too.
Weak of themselves are what we beauties call,
It is the manner which gives strength to all.
This teaches every beauty to unite,

And brings them forward in the noblest light.
Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng,
With transient gleam of grace, Hart sweeps along.
If all the wonders of external grace,
A person finely turn'd, a mould of face,
Where, union rare, Expression's lively force
With Beauty's softest magic holds discourse,
Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art,
Rouse the quick passions, and inflame the heart;
If music, sweetly breathing from the tongue,
Captives the ear, Bride must not pass unsung.
When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit,
By time and custom conquer'd, shall retreat;
When judgment, tutor'd by experience sage,
Shall shoot abroad, and gather strength from age;
When Heav'n in mercy shall the stage release
From the dull slumbers of a still-life piece;
When some stale flow'r, disgraceful to the walk,
Which long hath hung, though wither'd on the
stalk,

Shall kindly drop, then Bride shall make her way,
And merit find a passage to the day;
Brought into action, she at once shall raise
Her own renown, and justify our praise.

Form'd for the tragic scene, to grace the stage,
With rival excellence of love and rage,
Mistress of each soft art, with matchless skill
To turn and wind the passions as she will;
To melt the heart with sympathetic woe,
Awake the sigh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on Frenzy's wild distracted glare,
And freeze the soul with horrour and despair;
With just desert enroll'd in endless fame,
Conscious of worth superior, Cibber came.
When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd,
And strongly imag'd griefs her mind distract:

Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too! My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view The roof cracks, shakes, and falls! - New horros rise,

And Reason buried in the ruin lies.

Nobly disdainful of each slavish art, She makes her first attack upon the heart: Pleas'd with the summons, it receives her laws, And all is silence, sympathy, applause.

But when, by fond ambition drawn aside, Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride, She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence To comic merit, breaks down Nature's fence; I scarcely can believe my ears or eyes, Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise. Pritchard, by Nature for the stage design'd, In person graceful, and in sense refin'd; Her art as much as Nature's friend became, Her voice as free from blemish as her fame, Who knows so well in majesty to please, Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?

When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to gra She comes a captive queen of Moorish race; When Love, Hate, Jealousy, Despair, and Ragt, With wildest tumults in her breast engage; Still equal to herself is Zara seen; Her passions are the passions of a queen.

When she to murder whets the timorous Tha I feel ambition rush through ev'ry vein; Persuasion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new-stre

In comedy -"Nay there," cries Critic, "has Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old. Who can, with patience, bear the grey coquette, Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett? Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just; But then, her age and figure give disgust."

Are foibles then, and graces of the mind, In real life, to size, or age confin'd? Do spirits flow, and is good-breeding plac'd In any set circumference of waist? As we grow old, doth affectation cease, Or gives not age new vigour to caprice? If in originals these things appear, Why should we bar them in the copy here? The nice punctilio-mongers of this age, The grand minute reformers of the stage, Slaves to propriety of ev'ry kind, Some standard-measure for each part should find, Which when the best of actors shall exceed, Let it devolve to one of smaller breed. All actors too upon the back should bear Certificate of birth,-time, when ;-place, where For how can critics rightly fix their worth, Unless they know the minute of their birth? An audience too, deceiv'd, may find too late That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.

Figure, I own, at first may give offence, And harshly strike the eye's too curious sense; But when perfections of the mind break forth, Humour's chaste sallies, judgment's solid werth When the pure genuine flame, by Nature taught, Springs into sense, and ev'ry action's thought; Before such merit all objections fly; Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's six feet high Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wondrous skil, Confess'd thee great, but find thee greater still. That worth, which shone in scatter'd Collected now, breaks forth with double pow'r.

rays

before,

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