Spoken by Mrs.Bracegirdle.
Since'tis th' Intent and Business of the Stage,To copy out the Follies of the Age;To hold to every Man a faithful Glass,And shew him of what Species he's an Ass:I hope the next that teaches in the School,Will shew our Author he's a scribbling Fool.And that the Satire may be sure to bite,}Kind Heav'n! inspire some venom'd Priest to write,}And grant some ugly Lady may indite.}For I wou'd have him lash'd, by Heavens! I wou'd,Till his Presumption swam away in Blood.Three Plays at once proclaim a Face of Brass,}No matter what they are; That's not the Case—}To write three Plays, e'en that's to be an Ass.}But what I least forgive, he knows it too,For to his Cost he lately has known you—Experience shews, to many a Writer's Smart,You hold a Court where Mercy ne'er had part;So much of the old Serpent's Sting you have,You love to Damn, as Heaven delights to Save.In foreign Parts, let a bold Volunteer,}For Public Good, upon the Stage appear,}He meets ten thousand Smiles to dissipate his Fear.}All tickle on th' adventuring young Beginner,And only scourge th' incorrigible Sinner;They touch indeed his Faults, but with a HandSo gentle, that his Merit still may stand;Kindly they buoy the Follies of his Pen,That he may shun 'em when he writes again.But 'tis not so in this good-natur'd Town,}All's one, an Ox, a Poet, or a Crown;}OldEngland's Play was always knocking down.}
Since'tis th' Intent and Business of the Stage,To copy out the Follies of the Age;To hold to every Man a faithful Glass,And shew him of what Species he's an Ass:I hope the next that teaches in the School,Will shew our Author he's a scribbling Fool.And that the Satire may be sure to bite,}Kind Heav'n! inspire some venom'd Priest to write,}And grant some ugly Lady may indite.}For I wou'd have him lash'd, by Heavens! I wou'd,Till his Presumption swam away in Blood.Three Plays at once proclaim a Face of Brass,}No matter what they are; That's not the Case—}To write three Plays, e'en that's to be an Ass.}But what I least forgive, he knows it too,For to his Cost he lately has known you—Experience shews, to many a Writer's Smart,You hold a Court where Mercy ne'er had part;So much of the old Serpent's Sting you have,You love to Damn, as Heaven delights to Save.In foreign Parts, let a bold Volunteer,}For Public Good, upon the Stage appear,}He meets ten thousand Smiles to dissipate his Fear.}All tickle on th' adventuring young Beginner,And only scourge th' incorrigible Sinner;They touch indeed his Faults, but with a HandSo gentle, that his Merit still may stand;Kindly they buoy the Follies of his Pen,That he may shun 'em when he writes again.But 'tis not so in this good-natur'd Town,}All's one, an Ox, a Poet, or a Crown;}OldEngland's Play was always knocking down.}