| How say you, critic Gods[1], and you below[2]; |
| Are you all friends?—or here—and there—a foe? |
| Come to protect your literary trade, |
| Which Mrs. Scribble dares again invade— |
| But know you not—in all the fair ones do, |
| 'Tis not to please themselves alone—but you. |
| Then who so churlish, or so cynic grown, |
| Would wish to change a simper for a frown? |
| Or who so jealous of their own dear quill, |
| Would point the paragraph her fame to kill? |
| Yet such there are, in this all-scribbling town, | } |
| And men of letters too—of some renown, |
| Who sicken at all merit but their own. |
| But sure 'twere more for Wit's—for Honour's sake, |
| To make the Drama's race—the give and take. |
| [Looking round the house. |
| My hint I see's approv'd—so pray begin it, |
| And praise us—roundly for the good things in it, |
| Nor let severity our faults expose, |
| When godlike Homer's self was known to doze. |
| But of the piece—Methinks I hear you hint, |
| Some dozen lines or more should give the tint— |
| "Tell how Sir John with Lady Betty's maid |
| Is caught intriguing at a masquerade; |
| Which Lady Betty, in a jealous fit, |
| Resents by flirting with Sir Ben—the cit. |
| Whose three-feet spouse, to modish follies bent, |
| Mistakes a six-feet Valet—for a Gent. |
| Whilst Miss, repugnant to her Guardian's plan, |
| Elopes in Breeches with her fav'rite man." |
| Such are the hints we read in Roscius' days, |
| By way of Prologue ushered in their plays. |
| But we, like Ministers and cautious spies, |
| In secret measures think—the merit lies. |
| Yet shall the Muse thus far unveil the plot— |
| This play was tragi-comically got, |
| Those sympathetic sorrows to impart |
| Which harmonize the feelings of the heart; |
| And may at least this humble merit boast, |
| A structure founded on fair Fancy's coast. |
| With you it rests that judgement to proclaim, |
| Which in the world must raise or sink it's fame. |
| Yet ere her judges sign their last report, |
| 'Tis you [to the boxes] must recommend her to the Court; |
| Whose smiles, like Cynthia, in a winter's night, |
| Will cheer our wand'rer with a gleam of light. |
| |
| [1] Galleries. |
| [2] Pit. |