But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride,
When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.
* * * * *
Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close,
Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose;
There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow,
In Hamlet—looked unutterable woe!
Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved,
Barry grew agonised in—“not much mov’d.”
There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court,