Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turn
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame,
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?
Well may the Nobles of our present race
Watch each distortion of a Naldi’s face;
Well may they smile on Italy’s buffoons,
And worship Catalani’s pantaloons,[17]
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace.