High o'er the stage there lies a rambling frame, Which men a garret, players the tire-room name; Here all their stores (a merry medley) sleep, Without distinction huddled in a heap. Hung on the self-same peg, in union rest Young Tarquin's trowsers and Lucretia's vest, Whilst, without pulling coifs, Roxana lays Close by Statira's petticoat her stays. Hard-by a quart of bottled lightning lies, A bowl of double use, and monstrous size; Now rolls it high, and rumbles in its speed, Now drowns the weaker crack of mustard-seed. So the true thunder, all array'd in smoak, Lanch'd from the skies now rives the knotted oak, And sometimes, nought the drunkard's prayers avail, Ah! sometimes condescends to sour ale. Near these sets up a dragon-drawn calash, There a ghost's doublet gapes a frightful gash. In crimson wrought the sanguine floods abound, And seem to gutter from the streaming wound. Here Iris bends her various-painted arch, There pasteboard clouds in sullen order march; Here stands a crown upon a rack, and there A witch's broomstick by great Hector's spear; Here stands a throne, and there the Cynic's tub, Here Bullock's cudgel, there Alcides' club. Beads, plumes, and spangles, in confusion rise, Whilst rocks of Cornish diamonds reach the skies. Crests, corselets, all the pomp of battle join, Hence all the Drama's decorations rise, Play'd virtuous parts, and liv'd the parts he play'd. At length he fell; decay'd the Stage's pride, Still, at the worst or best of plays, the town So in the senate, be it to declare A well-concerted peace, or dreadful war, With other looks, yet scarce inferior grace, Nokes trod the stage, and shambled in his pace. Pleasant buffoon! to what an artful screw His wither'd chops the merry whoreson drew! Still may you live, immortal Actors, crown'd, Still may your praise from pole to pole resound, For still you live-in dust the vulgar lie, But never must theatric heroes die; Secure of fame, the stroke of fate they brave, As if, by acting Death, they learn'd to mock the grave. Whilst Shakspere's, Dryden's, Rowe's, and Otway's name, Are sung, and florish in the book of fame ; Here would I settle, here my fancy raise, And ransack Waller to complete their praise: Powell forbids; and, with a haughty tone Frowning, demands to have his merits known, With artful rattling wheeze, he draws his breath, He foams, he stares, he storms a madding note, A godlike air, quick eye, and accent smooth, With all the manly graces, shine in Booth. Bless'd with an aweful port and lordly mien, The pleas'd spectator dreads a king in Keene. Not so in airy Wilks; with cheerful grace, The careless rake sits sparkling in his face. Others there are, whose voice and gesture claim In pompous verse a never-dying fame : Others there are-but how should we describe The various beauties of the distant tribe? We hop'd, alas! we hop'd a nearer view, And farther, farther still our wishes flew ; But oh! those hopes are o'er; and, grief to say, Yet tax not us, Tragedians; tax not those We grudge you neither refuge nor applause, 'Tis your own Santlow banishes you hence; Should Oldfield then, the bright-eyed Oldfield join, All, all would love her like Achilles's son, 'Tis said young Ammon, when return'd from war, Leap'd from his throne, and kiss'd the servile boy. Struck with the sight, the son of Libyan Jove |