Come, pr'ythee Critic, fet before us,
The use and office of a chorus.

What! filent! why then, I'll produce
Its fervices from antient use.

"Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage,
To be an arrant go-between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene;
Shewing its forrow, or delight,

By shifting dances, left and right,

Not much unlike our modern notions,

Adagio or Allegro motions;

To watch upon the deep diftrefs,
And plaints of royal wretchedness;

And when, with tears, and execration,
They've pour'd out all their lamentation,
And wept whole cataracts from their eyes,
To call on rivers for fupplies,

And with their Hais, and Hees, and Hoes,
To make a fymphony of woes.

Doubtlefs

Doutlefs the Antients want the art To strike at once upon the heart : Or why their prologues of a mile In fimple-call it-humble ftile, In unimpaffion'd phrase to say "'Fore the beginning of this play, "I, hapless Polydore, was found "By fishermen, or others, drown'd!" Or, "I, a gentleman, did wed, "The lady I wou'd never bed, "Great Agamemnon's royal daughter, "Who's coming hither to draw water.”

Or need the Chorus to reveal
Reflexions, which the audience feel;
And jog them, left attention sink,
To tell them how and what to think?

Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view Cou'd look the whole creation through, Who travers'd all the human heart, Without recourse to Grecian art?

He fcorn'd the modes of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and tranflation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age;
The bright original he took,

And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakespeare, thus, who ftands alone
But why repeat what You have shown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The feelings of our hearts must tell.

EPIS

EPISTLE to J-B- Efq. 1757

AS my good dame a wicked child?

HAS

It takes the gentler name of wild. If chefts he breaks, if locks he picks,

'Tis nothing more than youthful tricks. The mother's fondness ftamps it merit, For vices are a fign of spirit.

Say, do the neighbours think the fame, With the good old indulgent dame? Cries goffip Prate, "I hear with grief My neighbour's fon's an arrant thief. "Nay, cou'd you think it, I am told, "He ftole five guineas, all in gold. "You know the youth was always wild"He got his father's maid with child; "And robb'd his master, to defray

"The money he had loft at play.

"All means to fave him now muft fail.

"What can it end in ? — In a jail.”

Howe'er the dame doats o'er her youth, My goffip fays the very truth.

But as his vices love wou'd hide, Or torture them to virtue's fide,

So friendship's glass deceives the eye,
(A glass too apt to magnify)

And makes you think at leaft you fee
Some spark of genius, ev'n in me:
You fay I fhou'd get fame. I doubt it :
Perhaps I am as well without it.
For what's the worth of empty praise ?
What poet ever din'd on bays?

For though the Laurel, rareft wonder !
May screen us from the ftroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.

And poet's live on flender fare,
Who, like Chameleons, feed on air,
And ftarve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only ferves them after death.

Grant