Rich in fine acting parts did never bring;
The manager repress’d their mental blaze,
And pent them up in chorusses to sing.
Of sonnetteers, full many a rhyming moan,
The monthly magazines, unread, contain;
Full many a joke is cut to die unknown,
Lost in the echoing dome of Drury Lane.
Some unknown Garrick, with advent’rous wing,
Clipp’d by the shears of want and melancholy;
Some low, inglorious Braham here may sing,