“But mark the eloquence of Siddons’ eye.”
Hard by yon band, now fiddling as in scorn,
Musing on Godwin would his fancy rove:
Now, drooping, when he thought of men forlorn,
For public weal now slighting private love.
One eve I miss’d him o’er th’ accustom’d pit,
Along the Critics’ seat, near twiddle dee;
Another came, nor where the Gods do sit,
Nor up the slips, nor at half price was he.
Next morn, ’twixt lawyers two, in black array,