Our author then, to please you in your way,
Prefents you now a bauble of a play;
In jingling rhyme, well fortify'd and ftrong,
He fights entrench'd o'er head and ears in fong.
If here and there fome evil-fated line
Should chance, thro' inadvertency, to fhine,
Forgive him, Beaus! he means you no offence,
But begs you, for the love of fong and dance,
To pardon all the poetry and fenfe.
To Mr. Bevil Higgons' excellent Tragedy, called
THE GENEROUS CONQUEROR,
YOUR comic writer is a common foe;
None can intrigue in peace, or be a beau;
Nor wanton wife nor widow can be sped,
Not even Ruffel* can inter the dead,
But ftraight this cenfor, in his whim of wit,
Strips and prefents you naked to the pit.
Thus critics fhould, like these, be branded foes,
Who for the poifon only fuck the rofe;
Snarling and carping, without wit or fenfe,
Impeach mistakes, o'erlooking excellence,
* A famous undertaker for funerals, alluding to a comedy written by Sir Richard Steele, entitled The Funeral.
As if to ev'ry fop it might belong,
Like fenators, to cenfure right or wrong.
But gen'rous minds have more heroic views,
And love and honour are the themes they chufe. 14
From yon bright heav'n* our author fetch'd his fire,
And paints the paffions that your eyes infpire;
Full of that flame, his tender fcenes he warms,
And frames his goddess by your matchlefs charms. 18
SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE IN MEN'S CLOTHES.
WHO have been the poet's spark to-day,
Will now become the champion of his play.
Know all, who would pretend to my good grace,
I mortally diflike a damning face.
Pleas'd or difpleas'd, no matter, now 't is past,
The first who dares be angry breathes his last:
Who fhall prefume to doubt my will and pleasure,
Him I defy to fend his weapon's measure.
If war you chufe, and blood must needs be fpilt here, By Jove! let me alone to match your tilter:
I'll give you fatisfaction if I can:
'Sdeath! 't is not the first time I've kill'd my man. On pain of being pofted to your forrow,
Fail not, at four, to meet me here to-morrow.
EACH in his turn, the poet and the priest †,
Have view'd the ftage, but like falfe prophets guest.
The man of zeal, in his religious rage,
Would filence pocts, and reduce the stage.
The poet, rafhly to get clear, retorts
On kings the fcandal, and befpatters courts.
Both err; for, without mincing, to be plain,
The guilt 's your own of ev'ry odious scene.
The prefent time ftill gives the stage its mode;
The vices that you practise we explode:
We hold the glafs, and but reflect your fhame,
Like Spartans, by exposing to reclaim.
The fcribbler, pinch'd with hunger, writes to dine,
And to your genius must conform his line;
Not lewd by choice, but merely to fubmit-
Would you encourage fenfe, fenfe would be writ.
Good plays we try, which, after the first day,
Unfeen we act, and to bare benches play.
Plain fenfe, which pleas'd your fires an age agó,
Is loft without the garniture of show.
At vaft expence we labour to our ruin,
And court your favour with our own undoing,
* Mr. Dryden's Prologue to The Pilgrim.
+ Mr. Collier's View of the Stage.
A war of profit mitigates the evil,
But to be tax'd and beaten-is the devil.
How was the fcene forlorn, and how defpis'd, 25
When Timon without mufic moraliz'd!
Shakespeare's fublime in vain entic'd the throng,
Without the aid of Purcell's Syren fong.
In the fame antique loom thefe fcenes were wrought, Embellish'd with good morals and just thought; 30 True Nature in her noble light you fee,
Ere yet debauch'd by modern gållantry
To trifling jefts and fulsome ribaldry:
What ruft remains upon the fhining mass,
Antiquity must privilege to pass.
'Tis Shakespeare's play, and if these scenes mifcarry, Let Gormon* take the stage-or Lady Mary †. 37
DESIGNED FOR THE BRITISH ENCHANTERS,
WIT once, like Beauty, without art or dress,
Naked, and unadorn'd, could find fuccefs,
Till by fruition novelty destroy'd,
The nymph must find new charms to be enjoy'd,
As by his equipage the man you prize,
And ladies must have gems befide their eyes;
A famous prize-fighter.
+ A famous rope-dancer so called.
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