Their russet boots by hundreds worn before;
Nor fashion hear, with a disdainful smile,
The lowly annals of our Thespian corps.
The dice of Beverley, the straw of Lear,
And all that Hamlet, all Macbeth e’er gave,
In the fifth act conclude their high career—
For tragic glory leads but to the grave.
Nor you, rich actors, lay on these the blame,
If their poor names no daily journals raise,
Where, thro’ the long-drawn column, bent on fame,