The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho' upon the stage, appear'd no Play'r.

The word and action should conjointly fuit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While sober humour marks th' impreffion ftrong,
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me closer to the poet's wit;
With her delighted o'er each scene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not asham'd of being so.

To

But let the generous Actor ftill forbear

copy features with a Mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill, which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile stage-cuftom, honour'd in the breach.
Worfe as more clofe, the difingenuous art
But fhews the wanton loofenefs of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public scene,
Forfaking nature's fair and open road

To mark fome whim, fome strange peculiar mode,

Fir'd

Fir'd with disgust I loath his fervile plan,
Despise the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hofpitals repair,

And hunt for humour in distortions there!
Fill up the measure of the motley whim
With fhrug, wink, fnuffle, and convulfive limb ;
Then shame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good fenfe, good manners, virtue, and the stage!

"Tis not enough the Voice be found and clear, "Tis modulation that must charm the ear. When defperate heroines grieve with tedious moan, And whine their forrows in a fee-faw tone, The fame soft sounds of unimpaffioned woes Can only make the yawning hearers doze.

The voice all modes of paffion can exprefs,
That marks the proper word with proper stress.
But none emphatic can that actor call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all,

Some

Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,

Point ev'ry ftop, mark ev'ry pause so strong,

Their words, like stage-proceffions, stalk along.
All affectation but creates disgust,

And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.

Nor proper, Thornton, can those founds appear Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear: In vain for them the pleasing measure flows, Whose recitation runs it all to profe; Repeating what the poet fets not down, The verb disjointing from its friendly noun, While pause, and break, and repetition join To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene With lifeless drone, infipid and ferene; While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,

And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.

More nature oft and finer ftrokes are shown, In the low whisper than tempeftuous tone. And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze, More powerful terror to the mind conveys, Than he, who fwol'n with big impetuous rage, Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.

He, who in earnest studies o'er his part, Will find true nature cling about his heart. The modes of grief are not included all In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl; A fingle look more marks th' internal woe, Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh. Up to the Face the quick fenfation flies, And darts its meaning from the fpeaking Eyes; Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, And all the paffions, all the foul is there.

In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round, And with her straws fantastic ftrews the ground, In vain now fings, now heaves the defp'rate figh, If phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.

In Cibber's look commanding forrows speak,
And call the tear faft trick'ling down my cheek.

There is a fault which ftirs the critic's rage; A want of due attention on the fstage.

I have seen actors, and admir'd ones too,

Whose tongues wound up
In their own fpeech who whine, or roar away,
Yet seem unmov'd at what the reft may say;
Whose eyes and thoughts on diff'rent objects roam,
Until the prompter's voice recal them home.

fet forward from their cue;

Divest yourself of hearers, if you can,
And strive to speak, and be the very man.
Why should the well-bred actor wish to know
Who fits above to-night, or who below?
So, 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian fquallers oft difgrace the stage;
When, with a fimp'ring leer, and bow profound,
The fqueaking Cyrus greets the boxes round;
Or proud Mandane, of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curt'fie to her grace.