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Correctly prun'd each wild luxuriant thought,
Mark'd out her course, nor spar'd a glorious fault.
The book of man he read with nicest art,
And ranfack'd all the fecrets of the heart;
Exerted penetration's utmost force,
And trac'd each paffion to its proper fource;
Then strongly mark'd, in livelieft colours drew,
And brought each foible forth to public view.
The coxcomb felt a lash in ev'ry word,
And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd.
His comic humour kept the world in awe,
And laughter frighten'd folly more than law.
But, hark!-The trumpet founds, the crowd
And the proceffion comes in juft array.
Now fhould I, in some sweet poetic line,
Offer up incenfe at Apollo's fhrine;
Invoke the mufe to quit her calm abode,
And waken mem'ry with a fleeping ode.
For how fhould mortal man, in mortal verfe,
Their titles, merits, or their names rehearse?
But give, kind dullness, memory and rhyme,
We'll put off genius till another time.
Firft, order came, with folemn ftep, and flow,
In meafur'd time his feet were taught to go.
Behind, from time to time, he caft his eye,
Left this fhould quit his place, that step awry.
Appearances to fave his only care;
So things feem right, no matter what they are.
In him his parents faw themselves renew'd,
Begotten by Sir Critic on Saint Prude.
Then came drum, trumpet, hautboy, fiddle,
Next fnuffer, fweeper, shifter, soldier, mute :
Legions of angels all in white advance,
Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance;
Pantomime figures then are brought to view,
Fools hand in hand with fools go two by two.
Next came the treafurer of either houfe;
One with full purfe, t' other with not a fous.
Behind, a group of figures awe create,
Set off with all th' impertinence of state;
By lace and feather confecrate to fame,
Expletive kings, and queens without a name.
Here Havard, all ferene, in the fame ftrains,
Loves, hates, and rages, triumphs, and complains:
His eafy vacant face proclaim'd a heart
Which could not feel emotions, nor impart.
With him came mighty Davies. On my life,
That Davies hath a very pretty wife :—
Statefman all over!-In plots famous grown!
He mouths a fentence, as curs mouth a bone.
Next Holland came. With truly tragic ftalk,
He creeps, he flies-A hero fhould not walk.
As if with heav'n he warr'd, his eager eyes
Planted their batteries against the skies;
Attitude, action, air, pause, start, figh, groan,
He borrow'd, and made ufe of as his own.
By fortune thrown on any other stage,
He might, perhaps, have pleas'd an easy age;
But now appears a copy, and no more,
Of fomething better we have feen before.
The actor who would build a solid fame,
Muft imitation's fervile arts difclaim;
Act from himself, on his own bottom stand;
I hate e'en Garrick thus at fecond-hand.
Behind came King.-Bred up in modeft lore,
Bathful and young he fought Hibernia's shore;
Hibernia, fam'd, 'bove ev'ry other grace,
For matchlefs intrepidity of face.
From her his features caught the gen'rous flame,
And bid defiance to all fenfe of fhame.
Tutor'd by her all rivals to furpass,
'Mongft Drury's fons he comes, and fhines in
Lo Yates!-Without the leaft fineffe of art
He gets applaufe-I with he'd get his part.
When hot impatience is in full career,
How vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e!" grates the ear!
When active fancy from the brain is fent,
And ftands on tip-toe for fome with'd event,
I hate those carelefs blunders which recall
Sufpended fenfe, and prove it fiction all.
In characters of low and vulgar mould, Where Nature's coarfeft features we behold, Where, deftitute of ev'ry decent grace, Unmanner'd jefts are blurted in your face, There Yates with juftice ftrict attention draws, Acts truly from himfelf, and gains applause. But when, to please himself or charm his wife, He aims at fomething in politer life,
When, blindly thwarting nature's stubborn plan,
He treads the stage, by way of gentleman,
The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows,
Looks like Tom Errand drefs'd in Clincher's
Fond of his drefs, fond of his person grown, Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown, From fide to fide he ftruts, he fmiles, he prates, And feems to wonder what's become of Yates.
Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face, Great mafter in the fcience of grimace, From Ireland ventures, fav'rite of the town, Lur'd by the pleafing profpect of renown; A fpeaking Harlequin, made up of whim, He twifts, he twines, he tortures ev'ry limb, Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art, And leaves to fenfe the conqueft of the heart. We laugh indeed, but, on reflection's birth, We wonder at ourfelves, and curfe our mirth. His walk of parts he fatally misplac'd, And inclination fondly took for tafte; Hence hath the town fo often feen display'd Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.
But when bold wits, not fuch as patch up plays,
Cold and correct, in thefe infipid days,
Some comic character, ftrong featur'd, urge
To probability's extremeft verge,
Where modeft judgment her decree fufpends,
And, for a time, nor cenfures nor commends,
Where critics can't determine on the fpot,
Whether it is in nature found or not,
There Woodward safely shall his pow'rs exert,
Nor fail of favour where he fhews defert.
Hence he in Bobadil fuch praises bore,
Such worthy praifes, Kitely fearce had more.
By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes, Conftant to none, Foote laughs, cries, ftruts and
Now in the centre, now in van or rear,
The Proteus fhifts, bawd, parfon, auctioneer.
His ftrokes of humour, and his bursts of sport,
Are all contain'd in this one word, Distort.
Doth a man ftutter, look a-fquint, or halt?
Mimics draw humour out of nature's fault,
With perfonal defects their mirth adorn,
And hang misfortunes out to public fcorn.
E'en I, whom nature caft in hideous mould,
Whom, having made, the trembled to behold,
Beneath the load of mimicry may groan,
And find that nature's errors are my own.
Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came;
Wilkinfon this, Obrien was that name.
Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,
That even fhadows have their fhadows too!
With not a fingle comic pow'r endu`d,
The first a mere mere mimic's mimic ftood;
The laft, by nature form'd to pleafe, who fhows,
In Jonfon's Stephen, which way Genius grows;
Self quite put off, affects, with too much art,
To put on Woodward in each mangled part;
Adopts his fhrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more.
His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd
When a dull copier fimple grace neglects, [before.
And refts his imitation in defects,
We readily forgive; but fuch vile arts
Are double guilt in men of real parts.
By nature form'd in her perverfeit mood,
With no one requifite of art endu'd,
Next Jackfon came.-Obferve that fettled glare,
Which better fpeaks a puppet than a player:
Lift to that voice-did ever difcord hear
Sounds fo well fitted to her untun'd ear?
When, to enforce fome very tender part,
The right-hand fleeps by inftinct on the heart,
His foul, of every other thought bereft,
Is anxious only where to place the left;
He fobs and pants to footh his weeping spouse,
To footh his weeping mother, turns and bows
Awkward, embarrats'd, ftiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully, or ftanding ftill,
One leg, as if fufpicious of his brother,
Defirous feems to run away from t' other.
Some errors, handed down from age to age,
Plead cuftom's force, and ftill poffefs the stage.
That 's vile-fhould we a parent's faults adore,
And err, because our fathers err'd before?
If, inattentive to the author's mind,
Some actors made the jeft they could not find,
If by low tricks they marr'd fair nature's mien,
And blurr'd the graces of the fimple scene,
Shall we, if reafon rightly is employ'd,
Not fee their faults, or feeing not avoid?
When Falstaff stands detected in a lie,
Why, without meaning, rolls love's glaffy eye?
Why-There's no caufe- -at least no caufe we
It was the fafhion twenty years ago: [know-
Fashion, a word which knaves and fools may use
Their knavery and folly to excufe.
To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence
To fame-to copy faults, is want of fenfe.
Yet (tho' in fome particulars he fails,
Some few particulars, where mode prevails)
If in these hallow'd times, when fober, fad,
All gentlemen are melancholy mad,
When 'tis not deem'd fo great a crime by half
To violate a vestal, as to laugh,
Rude mirth may hope prefumptuous to engage
An act of toleration for the ftage,
And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures,
Sufpend vain fashion, and unscrew their features,
Old Falfteff, play'd by Love, fhall please once
And humour fet the audience in a rear.
Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name,
Who, being from one part poffefs'd of fame,
Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl,
Still introduce that fav'rite part in all.
Here, Love, be cautious-ne'er be thou betray'd
To call in that wag Falftaff's dang'rous aid;
Like Goths of old, howe'er he feems a friend,
He'll feize that throne you with him to defend.
In a peculiar mould by humour caft,
For Falstaff fram'd-himfelf, the first and last,—
He ftands aloof from all-maintains his ftate,
And fcorns, like Scotsmen, to affimilate.
Vain all difguife-too plain we fee the trick,
Tho' the knight wears the weeds of Dominic,
And Boniface, difgrac'd, betrays the fmack,
In Anno Domini, of Falftaff's fack.
Arms crofs'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet
A band of malecontents with spleen o'erflow;
Wrapt in conceit's impenetrable fog,
Which pride, like Phoebus, draws from ev'ry bog,
They curfe the managers, and curfe the town,
Whole partial favour keeps fuch merit down.
But if fome man, more hardy than the reft,
Should dare attack thefe gnatlings in their neft;
At once they rife with impotence of rage,
Whet their small flings, and buzz about the stage.
"'Tis breach of privilege!-Shall any dare
To arm fatiric truth against a player?
Prefcriptive rights we plead time out of mind;
Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind.”
What! fhall opinion then, of nature free
And lib'ral as the vagrant air, agree
To ruft in chains like thefe, impos'd by things
Which, lefs than nothing, ape the pride of kings?
No-though half-poets with half-players join
To curfe the freedom of each honeft line;
Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek;
What the mufe freely thinks, the 'll freely speak.
With just disdain of ev'ry paltry fneer,
Stranger alike to flattery and fear,
In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule,
Public contempt fhall wait the public fool.
Auftin would always gliften in French filks,
Ackman would Norris be, and Packer Wilks.
For who, like Ackman, can with humour pleafe!
Who can, like Packer, charm with fprightly cafe?
Higher than all the reft, fee Branfby ftrut:
A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput !
Ludicrous Nature! which at once could fhew
A man fo very high, fo very low.
If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I fay
Aught hurtful, may I never fee thee play!
Let critics, with a fupercilious air,
Decry thy various merit, and declare
Frenchman is ftill at top;-but fcorn that rage
Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age.
French follies, univerfally embrac'd,
At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.
Long, from a nation ever hardly us'd,
At random cenfur'd, wantonly abus'd,
Have Britons drawn their fport, with partial view
Form'd gen'ral notions from the rascal few;
Condemn'd a people, as for vices known,
Which, from their country banish'd, feck our
At length, howe'er, the flavish chair. is broke,
And fenfe awaken'd, fcorns her ancient yoke:
Taught by thee, Moody, we now learn to raise
Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues,
Next came the legion, which our Summer Bayes,
From alleys, here and there, contriv'd to raise,
Flush'd with vaft hopes, and certain to fucceed
With Wits who cannot write, and fearce can read.
Vet'rans no more fupport the rotten caufe,
No more from Elliot's worth they reap applaufe;
Each on himself determines to rely,
Be Yates difbanded, and let Elliot fly.
Never did play'rs fo well an author fit,
To nature dead, and foes declar'd to wit.
So loud each tongue, fo empty was each head,
So much they talk'd, fo very little faid,
So wondrous dull, and yet fo wondrous vain,
At once fo willing, and unfit to reign,
That reafon fwore, nor would the oath recall,
Their mighty mafter's foul inform`d them all.
As one with various difappointments fad,
Whom dullness only kept from being mad,
Apart from all the reft great Murphy came-
Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame.
What tho' the fons of nonfenfe hail him fire,
Auditor, author, manager, and squire,
His retilefs foul's ambition ftops not there-
To make his triumphs perfect, dub him player.
In perfon tall, a figure form'd to please,
If fymmetry could charm, depriv'd of eafe;
When motionless he ftands, we all approve;
What pity 'tis the thing was made to move!
His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried found,
Seems to break forth from caverns under ground.
From hollow cheft the low fepulchral note
Unwilling heaves, and ftruggles in his throat.
Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace,
All must to him refign the foremost place.
When he attempts, in fome one fav'rite part,
To ape the feelings of a manly heart,
His honeft features the difguife defy,
And his face loudly gives his tongue the lye.
Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean,
Or raving mad, or ftupidly ferene.
In cold-wrought fcenes the lifeless actor flags,
In pallion, tears the paffion into rags.
Can none remember?-Yes-I know all must-
When in the Moor he ground his teeth to duft,
When o'er the ftage he folly's ftandard bore,
Whilft common-fenfe ftood trembling at the door.
How few are found with real talents blefs'd!
Fewer with nature's gifts contented reft.
Man from his fphere eccentric starts aftray;
All hunt for fame; but most mistake the way.
Bred at St. Omer's to the fhuffling trade,
The hopeful youth a jefuit might have made,
With various readings ftor'd his empty skul
Learn'd without fenfe, and venerably dull,
Or, at fome banker's desk, like many more,
Content to tell that two and two make four,
His name had ftood in city annals fair,
And prudent dullness mark'd him for a mayor.
What then could tempt thee, in a critic age,
Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a ftage?
Could it be worth thy wondrous wafte of pains
To publish to the world thy lack of brains?
Or might not reafon e'en to thee have shewn
Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown?
Yet let not vanity, like thine, defpair :
Fortune makes folly her peculiar care.
A vacant throne high plac'd in Smithfield view,
To facred dulinefs and her first-born due;
Thither with hafte in happy hour repair,
Thy birth-right claim, nor fear a rival there.
Shuter himself fhall own thy jufter claim,
And venal Ledgers puff their Murphy's name,
Whilft Vaughan or Dapper, call him which you
Shall blow the trumpet, and give out the bill.
There rule fecure from critics and from sense,
Nor once fhall genius rife to give offence;
Eternal peace thall blefs the happy shore,
And little factions break thy rest no more.
From Covent-Garden crowds promifcuous go,
Whom the mufe knows not, nor defires to know.
Vet'rans they feem'd, but knew of arms no more
Than if, till that time, arms they never bore:
Like Weftminster militia train'd to fight,
They fcarcely knew the left hand from the right.
Afham'd among fuch troops to fhew the head,
Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled.
Sparks at his glafs fat comfortably down
To fep rate frown from fimile, and fmile from
Smith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart,
Smith was just gone to fchool to say his part;
Rofs (a misfortune which we often meet)
Was faft afleep at dear Statira's feet;
Statira, with her hero to agree,
Stood on her feet as faft aflcep as he;
Macklin, who largely deals in half-form'd founds,
Who wantonly tranfgreffes nature's bounds,
Whofe acting 's hard, affected, and constrain'd,
Whofe features, as each other they difdain'd,
At variance fet, inflexible and coarfe,
Ne'er know the workings of united force,
Ne'er kindly foften to each other's aid,
Nor fhew the mingled pow'rs of light and shade,
No longer for a thankless stage concern'd,
To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd,
* A gentleman ftill living, who published, at this juncture, a Poem entitled "The Retort."
Harangu'd, gave lectures, made each fimple clf
Almoft as good a fpeaker as himself;
Whilft the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal,
An awkward rage for elocution feel;
Dull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim,
And join with Sheridan's their Macklin's name;
Shuter, who never car'd a fingle pin
Whether he left out nonfenfe, or put in,
Who aim'd at wit, tho', levell'd in the dark,
The random arrow feldom hit the mark,
At Ilington, all by the placid ftream
Where City fwains in lap of dullness dream,
Where, quiet as her ftrains their ftrains
That all the patron by the bards may know,
Socret as night, with Rolt's experienc'd aid,
The plan of future operations laid,
Projected fchemes the fummer months to chear,
And fpin out happy folly through the year.
But think not, though thefe daftard-chiefs are
That Covent Garden troops fhall want a head:
Harlequin comes their chief!-Sec from afar,
The hero feated in fantastic car!
Wedded to novelty, his only arms
Are wooden fwords, wands, talifmans, and charms;
On one fide folly fits, by fome call'd fun,
And on the other, his arch-patron, Lun.
Behind, for liberty a-thirst in vain,
Senfe, helpless captive, drags the galling chain.
Six rude mif-fhapen beafts the chariot draw,
Whom reafon loaths, and nature never faw;
Monsters, with tails of ice, and heads of fire;
Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire.
Each was beftrode by full as monftrous wight,
Giant, dwarf, genius, elf, hermaphrodite.
The town, as ufual, met him in full cry;
The town, as ufual, knew no reason why.
But fashion fo directs, and moderns raife
On fathion's mould'ring bafe their tranfient praife.
Next, to the field a band of females draw
Their force; for Britain owns no falique law:
Juft to their worth, we female rights admit,
Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit.
First, giggling, plotting chamber-maids arrive,
Hoydens and romps, led on by gen'ral Clive.
In spite of outward blemishes, the fhone
For humour fam'd, and humour all her own.
Eafy, as if at home, the ftage fhe trod,
Nor fought the critic's praife, nor fear'd his rod.
Original in spirit and in cafe,
She pleas'd by hiding all attempts to please.“
No comic actress ever yet could raife,
On humour's base, more merit or more praife.
With all the native vigour of fixteen,
Among the merry troop confpicuous feen,
See lively Pope advance in jig and trip,
Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip.
Not without art, but yet to nature true,
She charms the town with humour juft, yet new.
Chear'd by her promife, we the lefs deplore
The fatal time when Clive fhall be no more.
-Lo! Vincent comes-with fimple grace ar-
She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade.
Nature through her is by reflection fhown,
Whilft Gay once more knows Polly for his own.
Talk not to me of diffidence and fear-
I fee it all, but muft forgive it here.
Defects like these which modeft terrors cause,
From impudence itfelf extort applaufe.
Candour and reafon ftill take virtue's part;
We love e'en foibles in fo good an heart.
Let Tommy Arne, with ufual pomp of ftyle,
| Whole chief, whofe only merit 's to compile,
Who, meanly pilfering here and there a bit,
Deals mufic out as Murphy deals out wit,
Publifh proposals, laws for tafte preferibe,
And chant the praife of an Italian tribe;
Let him reverfe kind nature's first decrees,
And teach e'en Brent a method not to please;
But never fhall a truly British age
Bear a vile race of eunuchs on the stage.
The boafted work 's call'd National in vain,
If one Italian voice pollutes the ftrain.
Where tyrants rule, and flaves with joy obey,
Let flavith minstrels pour th' enervate lay;
To Britons far more noble pleasures spring,
In native notes whilft Beard and Vincent fing.
Might figure give a title unto fame,
What rival should with Yates difpute her claim ?
But juftice may not partial trophies raise,
Nor fink the actrefs in the woman's praife.
Still hand in hand her words and actions go,
And the heart feels more than the features shew:
For, through the regions of that beauteous face,
We no variety of pallions trace;
Dead to the foft emotions of the heart,
No kindred foftnefs can thofe eyes impart;
The brow, fill fix'd in forrow's fullen frame,
Void of diftinction, marks all parts the fame.
What's a fine person, or a beauteous face,
Unlefs deportment gives them decent grace ?
Blefs'd with all other requifites to pleafe,
Some want the ftriking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their awkward movement tires;
They feem like puppets led about by wires.
Others, like ftatues, in one posture fill,
Give great ideas of the workman's fkill;
Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view,
And only grieve he gave not motion too.
Weak of themfelves are what we beauties call,
It is the manner which gives ftrength to all.
This teaches ev'ry beauty to unite,
And brings them forward in the nobleft light.
Happy in this, behold, amidft the throng,
With tranfient gleam of grace, Hart iwceps along.
If all the wonders of external grace,
A perfon finely turn'd, a mould of face
Where, union rare, expreffion's lively force
With beauty's fofteft magic holds difcourte,
Attract the eve; if feelings. void of art
Roufe the quick patlions, and enflame the heart;
If mufic, fweetly breathing from the tongue,
Captives the ear, Bride must not pafs unfung.
When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit,
By time and cuftom conquer'd, fhall retreat;
When judgment, tutor'd by experience fage,
Shall fhoot abroad, and gather ftrength from age;
When heav'n in mercy fhall the ftage release
From the dull flumbers of a fill-life piece;
When fome ftale flow'r, difgraceful to the walk.
Which long hath hung, tho' wither'd on the ftaik,
Shall kindly drop, then Bride fhall make her way,
And merit find a paffage to the day;
Brought into action, the at once thall raise
Her own renown, and justify our praife.
Form'd for the tragic fcene, to grace the stage,
With rival excellence of love and rage,
Miftrefs of each foft art, with matchlefs fkill
To turn and wind the paffions as fhe will;
To melt the heart with fympathetic woe,
Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on phrenfy's wild diftracted glare,
And freeze the foul with horror and defpair;
With juft defert enroll'd in endless fame,
Confcious of worth fuperior, Cibber came.
When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack 'd,
And ftrongly imag'd griefs her mind distract;
Struck with her grief, I catch the madnels too!
My brain turns round, the headlefs trunk I view!
The roof cracks, fhakes and falls!-new horrors
And reafon buried in the ruin lies.
Nobly difdainful of each flavish art, She makes her first attack upon the heart: Pleas'd with the fummons, it receives her laws, And all is filence, fympathy, applaufe.
But when, by fond ambition drawn afide, Giddy with praife, and puff'd with female pride, She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence; I fcarcely can believe my cars or eves, Or find out Cibber through the dark difguife. Pritchard, by nature for the ftage defign'd, In perfon graceful, and in fenfe refiad, Her art as much as nature's friend became, Her voice as free from blemish as her fame. Who knows fo well in majefty to pleafe, Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease? When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace, She comes a captive queen of Moorish race; When love, hate, jealoufy, defpair and rage, With wildeft tumults in her breaft engage; Still equal to herfelf is Zara feen; Her pailions are the paffions of a queen.
When the to murther whets the timorous Thane, I feel ambition rush through ev'ry vein; Perfuafion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new firung.
In comedy Nay, there," cries critic, "hold,
Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old.
Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette,
Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett?
Her fpeech, look, action, humour, all are juft;
But then, her age and figure give difguft."
Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
In real life, to fize or age confin'd?
Do fpirits flow, and is good-breeding plac'd
In any fet circumference of waift?
As we grow old, doth affectation crafe,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice?
If in originals thefe things appear,
Why fhould we bar them in the copy here?
The nice punctilio-mongers of this age,
The grand minute reformers of the stage,
Slaves to propriety of ev'ry kind,
Some standard-meafure for each part fhould find,
Which when the best of actors fhall exceed,
Let it devolve to one of fmaller breed.
All actors too upon the back should bear
Certificate of birth;-time, when ;-place, where.
For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
Unless they know the minute of their birth?
An audience too, deceiv'd, may find too late
That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.
Figure, I own, at firft may give offence,
And harthly strike the eye's too curious fenfe :
But when perfections of the mind break forth,
Humour's chafte fallies, judginent's folid worth;
When the pure genuine flame, by nature taught,
Springs into fenfe, and ev'ry action 's thought;
Before fuch merit all objections fly;
Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's fix feet high.
Oft have I, Pritchard, feen thy wondrous fkili,
Confefs'd thee great, but find thee greater still.
That worth, which fhone in fcatter'd rays before,
Collected now, breaks forth with double pow'r.
The Jealous Wife! on that thy trophies raise,
Inferior only to the author's praife.
From Dublin, fam'd in legends of romance For mighty magic of enchanted lance, With which her heroes arm'd victorious prove, And like a flood rush o'er the land of love, Moffop and Barry came-names ne'er defign'd By fate in the fame fentence to be join'd. Rais'd by the breath of popular acclaim, They mounted to the pinnacle of fame; There the weak brain, made giddy with the heigl.t, Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to moital fight. Thus fportive boys, around fome bafon's brim, Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling fwim: But if, from lungs more potent, there arise Two bubbles of a more than common fize, Eager for honour they for fight prepare, Bubble meets bubble, and both fink to air.`
Moop, attach'd to military plan,
Still kept his cye fix'd on his right-hand man. Whift the mouth meafures words with feeming fkill,
The right-hand labours, and the left lies ftill;
For he refolv'd on fcripture-grounds to go,
What the right doth, the left-hand thall not