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 Christians were the subject 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 chofe,
A martyr dying 'midft infulting foes.
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's caufe.
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 exprest
A kindred ardour in the player's breast ;
Till as the flame thro' all his bofom ran,
He lost the Actor, and commenc'd the Man :
Profest 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 Ease.
There are, who think the ftature all in all,
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling sense 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 pofition ftrong,
The other, like its vaffal, dragg'd along.
So grave
each motion, so exact and flow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill fupplies its place.
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!
Refolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pause,
By perseverance to extort applause.
When Romeo forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness bursts 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 sock 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 fteady 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 symptom of the conscious joke ;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho' upon the stage, appear'd no Play'r.
The word and action fhould conjointly fuit, But acting words is labour too minute. Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong; While fober 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 fo.
But let the generous Actor ftill forbear
To copy features with a Mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill, which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile stage-custom, honour'd in the breach.
Worfe as more close, the difingenuous art
But fhews the wanton looseness 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, some strange peculiar mode,
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