Mere puppets here, obedient to their will,
We love or hate—are blest or wretched—kill’d or kill—
Mirth we put on, just as we put on graces—
And wit—that’s sent home ready with our dresses.
What, tho’ at night so very smart and charming—
The dullest mortals breathing, in the morning—
Hence the nice sop, ’ere he our merit stamps.
Of rouge all doubtful—and these treach’rous lamps,
Midst the loud praise, still asks with cautious leer
How is she off the stage—what is she near——