Marlbro's exploits appear divinely bright,
And proudly shine in their own native light; Rais'd of themselves, their genuine charms they boast, And those who paint them truest praise them most.
IN the first rise and infancy of farce,
When fools were many, and when plays were scarce, The raw unpractis'd authors could, with ease,
and unexperienc'd audience please; No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own; Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.
But now our British theatre can boast
Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host! Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and beaux ; Rough country knights are found of every shire;
Of every fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of diff'rent characters we meet,
As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
1 A comedy written by sir Richard Steele, who in dedicating it to Addison, acknowledges that he is indebted to him for several of its most successful scenes.
Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull, And here and there by chance glean up a fool; Long ere they find the necessary spark, They search the town, and beat about the park, To all his most frequented haunts resort, Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court: As love of pleasure, or of place, invites : And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's. Howe'er, to do you right, the present age Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage; That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod, And wont be blockheads in the common road. Do but survey this crowded house to-night:
-Here's still encouragement for those that write. Our author, to divert his friends to-day, Stocks with variety of fools his play: And that there may be something gay and new, Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view; The first a damsel, travell'd in romance;
The other more refin'd; she comes from France: Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger; And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.
WHEN Orpheus tun'd his lyre with pleasing woe, Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow,
While list'ning forests cover'd, as he play'd, The soft musician in a moving shade.
That this night's strains the same success may find, The force of magic is to music join'd:
Where sounding strings and artful voices fail, The charming rod and mutter'd spells prevail. Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand On barren mountains, or a waste of sand, The desert smiles; the woods begin to grow, The birds to warble, and the springs to flow. The same dull sights in the same landscape mix'd, Scenes of still life, and points for ever fix'd, A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow, And pall the sense with one continued show: But as our two magicians try their skill, The vision varies, though the place stands still,
1 A dramatic poem written by the lord Lansdown.
While the same spot its gaudy form renews, Shifting the prospect to a thousand views. Thus (without unity of place transgrest) Th' enchanter turns the critic to a jest.
But howsoe'er', to please your wand'ring eyes, Bright objects disappear, and brighter rise: There's none can make amends for lost delight, While from that circle we divert your sight.
2 A word which nobody would now use in verse, and not many in good prose. BISHOP Hurd.
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