Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking,
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.
Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?-I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got my cue:
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.
[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses !
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots in party-colour 'd suits that ride 'em :
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, dam' me! who's afraid? [Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am,
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in black!
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too :
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by power, and unappall 'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear :
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame:
No more my titles shall my children tell;
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e 'en conquest dear:
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes;
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
But let us not proceed too furious,—
First please to turn to god Mercurius :
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay;
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat :
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather? very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison-proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse:
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air:
And here my simile unites;
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand, By classic authors termed Caduceus, And highly famed for several uses: To wit, most wond'rously endued, No poppy-water half so good; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore; Add, too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then :His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twined Denote him of the reptile kind, Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom'd bites: An equal semblance still to keep, Alike, too, both conduce to sleep; This difference only,—as the god Drove souls to Tart 'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript;
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it.-Stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance:
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confess 'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack :
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.
HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense:
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
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