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To fuit the drefs demands the actor's art, Yet there are those who over-drefs the part. To some prescriptive right gives settled things, Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings. But Michael Caffio might be drunk enough, Tho' all his features were not grim'd with fnuff. Why shou'd Pol Peachum shine in fatin cloaths? Why ev'ry devil dance in fcarlet hose ?

But in ftage-customs what offends me most
Is the flip-door, and flowly-rifing ghost.
Tell me, nor count the question too severe,
Why need the dismal powder'd forms appear?

When chilling horrors fhake th' affrighted king, And guilt torments him with her fcorpion sting; When keenest feelings at his bofom pull, And fancy tells him that the feat is full; Why need the ghost ufurp the monarch's place, To frighten children with his mealy face? The king alone fhou'd form the phantom there, And talk and tremble at the vacant chair.

If Belvidera her lov'd lofs deplore,

Why for twin spectres bursts the yawning floor?
When with disorder'd ftarts, and horrid cries,
She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes,
And still pursues them with a frantic stare,
'Tis pregnant madness brings the visions there.
More inftant horror would enforce the scene,
If all her fhudd'rings were at shapes unseen.

Poet and Actor thus, with blended skill, Mould all our paffions to their inftant will; 'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the stage, (The speaking comment of his Shakespear's page) Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears, I shake with horror, or diffolve with tears.

!

O, ne'er may folly feize the throne of tafte, Nor dulnefs lay the realms of genius waftel No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire, No tumbler float upon the bending wire! » More natural uses to the stage belong,

Than tumblers, monsters, pantomime, or fong.

For

For other purpose was that spot design'd :
To purge the paffions, and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,

And while it charms the ear to mend the heart.

Thornton, to thee, I dare with truth commend, The decent ftage as virtue's natural friend. Tho' oft debas'd with scenes profane and loose, No reafon weighs against it's proper use. Tho' the lewd priest his facred function shame, Religion's perfect law is ftill the fame.

Shall They, who trace the paffions from their rife,
Shew scorn her features, her own image vice?
Who teach the mind it's proper force to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man,
Shall their profeffion e'er provoke disdain,
Who ftand the foremost in the mortal train,

Who lend reflection all the grace
of art,
And strike the precept home upon the heart?

Yet,

Yet, hapless Artift! tho' thy fkill can raise
The bursting peal of universal praise,
Tho' at thy beck Applause delighted stands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands,
Know, fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the stroke of death..
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,

And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel.

Tho' blended here the praise of bard and play'r,
While more than half becomes the Actor's fhare,
Relentless death untwifts the mingled fame,
And finks the player in the poet's name.

grace,

The pliant muscles of the various face,
The mien that gave each fentence strength and
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a single trace behind.

To

To GEORGE COLMAN, Efq.

A FAMILIAR EPISTL E.

Written Jan. 1, 1761. From Tiffington in Derbyshire.

RIENDSHIP with most is dead and cool,

FR

A dull, inactive, stagnant pool;
Yours like the lively current flows,
And fhares the pleasure it bestows.
If there is ought, whofe lenient pow'r
Can footh affliction's painful hour,
Sweeten the bitter cup of care,

And snatch the wretched from defpair,
Superior to the sense of woes,

From friendship's fource the balfam flows.

Rich then am I, poffeft of thine,

Who know that happy balsam mine.

In youth, from nature's genuine heat,
The fouls congenial spring to meet,
And emulation's infant ftrife,

Cements the man in future life.

Oft

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