Some unfledged buskins on our boards appear;
And Covent Garden sends us stage-sick trash
To gather laurels or to pocket cash.
A Phillipps comes to sing us Braham's airs,
And Wallack, Finn, and Maywood strut with theirs.
These sickly meteors dim our hemisphere,
While rare as comets Cookes and Keans appear:
These fopling twinklers, with their borrowed glare,
Will meet our censure when we cease to stare.
But the bright sun that gives our stage its rays