Thrice happy Genius, whose unrival'd name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead, with more than magic skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear fpontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of fympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chilness creep,
When horrors fuch as thine have murder'd fleep;
And at the old man's look and frantic stare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I fee him there.
confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The Comic Mufe too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requifite to please,
Taste, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Ease,
Familiar nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool.
With powers fo pliant, and fo various bleft,
That what we fee the laft, we like the best.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burst outrageous with the laugh of sense.
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The Play'r's profeffion (tho' I hate the phrase,
'Tis fo mechanic in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowlege is his only art.
The strong-felt paffion bolts into the face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace?
To this one standard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden fecret; learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distrest,
No actor pleases that is not poffefs'd.
Once on the stage, in Rome's declining days,
When Chriftians were the fubject of their plays,
E'er perfecution dropp'd her iron rod,
And men ftill wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's disciple, and Geneft his name.
A noble object for his skill he chose,
A martyr dying 'midst infulting foes.
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's cause.
Fill'd with th' idea of the fecret part,
He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
While look and voice, and gefture, all expreft
A kindred ardour in the player's breast;
Till as the flame thro' all his bofom ran,
He loft the Actor, and commenc'd the Man :
Profeft the faith, his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.
The Player's province they but vainly try, Who want these pow'rs, Deportment, Voice, and Eye.
The Critic Sight 'tis only Grace can please,
No figure charms us if it has not Eafe.
There are, who think the ftature all in all,
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling fenfe all other want fupplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his fize.
Superior height requires fuperior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?
Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait,
Affect to mark the folemn pace of state.
One foot put forward in position strong,
The other, like its vaffal, dragg'd along.
So grave each motion, fo exact and flow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill fupplies its place.
Unskilful actors, like your mimic apes,
Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes;
However foreign from the poet's art,
No tragic hero but admires a start.
What though unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his attitude is fine?
While a whole minute equipois'd he stands,
Till praise dismiss him with her echoing hands!
Resolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pause,
By perfeverance to extort applause.
When Romeo sorrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness burfts the canvas tomb,
The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff,
Which please the vulgar, make the critic laugh.
To paint the paffion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's felf will tell :
No pleasing pow'rs distortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loaths excess.
In fock or buskin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Difgufts our reason, and the taste confounds.
Of all the evils which the stage moleft, I hate your fool who overacts his jest : Who murders what the poet finely writ, And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit, With fhrug, and grin, and gefture out of place, And writes a foolish comment with his face. Old Johnson once, tho' Cibber's perter vein But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train, With steady face, and fober hum'rous mien, Fill'd the ftrong outlines of the comic scene. What was writ down, with decent utt'rance spoke, Betray'd no fymptom of the conscious joke ;
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