You rob some others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.
But grant the cast is as you like,
To actors which you think will strike.
To-morrow then-(but as you know
I've ne'er a Comedy to shew,
Let me a while in conversation,
Make free with yours for application)
The arrow's flight can't be prevented—
To-morrow then, will be presented
The JEALOUS WIFE! To-morrow? Right.
How do you sleep, my friend, to-night?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roast-beef, and catcalls in your ears?
Mab's wheels across your temples creep,
You toss and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and spleen,
"That fellow murders all my
To-morrow comes. I know your merit,
And see the piece's fire and spirit;
Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty,
And dreads the efforts of a party.
The coach below, the clock gone five, Now to the theatre we drive :
Peeping the curtain's eyelet through,
Behold the house in dreadful view!
Observe how close the critics sit,
And not one bonnet in the pit.
With horror hear the galleries ring,
Nosy! Black Joke! God save the King!
Sticks clatter, catcalls scream, Encore!
Cocks crow, pit hisses, galleries roar :
E'en cha' some oranges is found
This night to have a dreadful sound:
"Till, decent sables on his back
(Your prologuizers all wear black)
The prologue comes; and, if it's mine,
It's very good and very fine.
If not, I take a pinch of snuff,
And wonder where you got such stuff.
That done, a-gape the critics sit, Expectant of the comic wit.
The fiddlers play again pell-mell,
—But hist!—the prompter rings his bell.
-Down there! hats off!-the curtain draws!
What follows is-the just applause.
While you, my friend, are sure to please
With all the pow'rs of comic ease.
Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of wishes, full of fears.
One might by pleasant thoughts be led,
To lose a trifling maiden-head;
But 'tis a terrible vexation
To give up with it reputation.
And he, who has with Plays to do,
Has got the devil to go through..
Critics have reason for their rules,
I dread the censure of your fools.
For tell me, and consult your pride,
(Set Garrick for a while aside)
How cou'd you, George, with patience bear,
The critic prosing in the play'r?
Some of that calling have I known,
Who hold no judgment like their own;
And yet their reasons fairly scan,
And separate the wheat and bran;
You'd be amaz'd indeed to find
What little wheat is left behind.
For, after all their mighty rout,
Of chatt'ring round and round about;
"Tis but a kind of clock-work talking, Like crossing on the stage, and walking.
The form of this tribunal past, The play receiv'd, the parts all cast, Each actor has his own objections, Each character, new imperfections:
The man's is drawn too coarse and rough, -The lady's has not smut enough. It wants a touch of Cibber's ease, A higher kind of talk to please; Such as your titled folks would chuse, And Lords and Ladyships might use, Which stile, whoever would succeed in, Must have small wit, and much good breeding. If this is dialogue-ma foi,
Sweet Sir, say I, pardonnez moi!
As long as life and business last,
The actors have their several cast,
A walk where each his talents shews,
Queens, Nurses, Tyrants, Lovers, Beaux;
Suppose you've found a girl of merit,
Who'd shew your part in all it's spirit,
Take the whole meaning in the scope,
Some little lively thing, like Pope,
You rob some others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.
But grant the cast is as you like,
To actors which you think will strike.
To-morrow then-(but as you know
I've ne'er a Comedy to shew,
Let me a while in conversation,
Make free with yours for application)
The arrow's flight can't be prevented—
To-morrow then, will be presented
The JEALOUS WIFE! To-morrow? Right.
How do you sleep, my friend, to-night ?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roast-beef, and catcalls in your ears?
Mab's wheels across your temples creep,
You toss and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and spleen,
"That fellow murders all my scene."
To-morrow comes. I know your merit, And see the piece's fire and spirit; Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty,
And dreads the efforts of a party.
The coach below, the clock gone five, Now to the theatre we drive;
|