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 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? 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 : 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, Who lend reflection all the grace Yet, Yet, hapless Artift! tho' thy fkill can raise And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel. Tho' blended here the praise of bard and play'r, grace, The pliant muscles of the various face, 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; And snatch the wretched from defpair, 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, Cements the man in future life. Oft |