Wherein the keen, applauding eye
Might dwell on my deformity,
And where the picture might beguile
The judgement to afford a smile.
—When this same work I had perform'd
My vanity was rather warm'd.
'Humour,' 'twas said, 'the piece discovers,'
And it was call'd, 'The Crooked Lovers.'
"I think, Sir Jeff'ry you may guess,
The plot my Farce aims to possess,—
A kind of praise of ugliness; | } |
Where Beauty is not seen to charm,
Nor fill the heart with fond alarm;
Where finest eyes may gleam in vain,
May wake no joy, or give no pain:
And though the beaming smiles may grace
The rosy bloom of Delia's face,
Here they excite no am'rous passion,
Nor call forth tender inclination:
Such the desire, that ev'ry day,
Amuses Cupid when at play,
But other objects must engage
The scenes I offer'd to the stage:
Lame legs, club feet, and blinking eyes,
With such like eccentricities,
Call'd forth my amorous desire,
And set my actors all on fire.
With me no Damon longs to sip
The sweets of Cath'rine's pouting lip,
But smoke-dried Strephon seeks the bliss
Of a well-guarded, snuffy kiss,
Where the long nose, delightful wonder,
Scarce from the chin can keep asunder;
Where lovers' hearts ne'er feel a thump,
But when they view each other's hump. |
"Now here again I was o'erthrown