The man in print and converfation
Have often very small relation;
And he, whofe humour hits the town,
When copied fairly, and fet down,
In public company may pass,
For little better than an afs.
Perhaps the fault is on his fide,
Springs it from modesty, or pride,
Those qualities asham'd to own,
For which he's happy to be known;
Or that his nature's ftrange and fhy,
And diffident, he knows not why;
Or from a prudent kind of fear,
As, knowing that the world's fevere,
He wou'd not fuffer to escape
Familiar wit in easy shape:
Left gaping fools, and vile repeaters,
Should catch her up, and spoil her features,
And, for the child's unlucky maim,
The faultlefs parent come to fhame.
Well, but methinks I hear you fay,
Write then, my friend! -Write what?
"The theatres are open yet,
"The market for all fterling wit;
Try the strong efforts of your pen, "And draw the characters of men ; "Or bid the bursting tear to flow, "Obedient to the fabled woe : "With Tragedy's severest art, "Anatomize the human heart, "And, that you may be understood, "Bid nature speak, as nature fhou'd."
That talent, George, tho' yet untried,
Perhaps my genius has denied ;
While you, my friend, are fure to please
With all the pow'rs of comic ease.
Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of wishes, full of fears.
One might by pleasant thoughts be led
To lose a trifling maiden-head;
But 'tis a terrible vexation
To give up with it reputation.
And he, who has with Plays to do,
Has got the devil to go through.
Critics have reason for their rules,
I dread the cenfure of your fools.
For tell me, and confult your pride,
(Set Garrick for a while afide)
How cou'd you, George, with patience bear,
The critic profing in the play'r?
Some of that calling have I known,
Who hold no judgment like their own;
And yet their reasons fairly scan,
And separate the wheat and bran,
You'd be amaz'd indeed to find,
What little wheat is left behind.
For, after all their mighty rout,
Of chatt'ring round and round about;
'Tis but a kind of clock-work talking,
Like croffing on the ftage, and walking.
The form of this tribunal past,
The play receiv'd, the parts all cast,
Each actor has his own objections,
Each character, new imperfections:
The man's is drawn too courfe and rough,
The lady's has not smut enough.
It want's a touch of Cibber's ease,
A higher kind of talk to please;
Such as your titled folks would chufe,
And Lords and Ladyship's might use,
Which ftile, whoever would fucceed in,
Must have small wit, and much good breeding,
If this is dialogue — ma foi,
Sweet Sir, fay I, pardonnez moi !
As long as life and business lasts,
The actors have their feveral cafts,
A walk where each his talents fhews,
Queens, Nurses, Tyrants, Lovers, Beaux;
Suppose you've found a girl of merit,
Who'd fhew your part in all its spirit,
Take the whole meaning in the scope,
Some little lively thing, like Pope,
You rob fome others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.
But grant the caft is as you like,
To actors which you think will strike.
To-morrow then (but as you know
I've ne'er a Comedy to shew,
Let me a while in conversation,
Make free with yours for application)
The arrow's flight can't be prevented
To-morrow then, will be presented
The JEALOUS WIFE! To-morrow? Right.
How do you fleep, my friend, to-night?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roaft-beef, and catcalls in
Mabb's wheels a-crofs your temples creep,
You tofs and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and fpleen,
"That fellow murders all my scene."
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