Written by Mr.STEELE.
Spoken by Mr.Booth.
Ourauthor's wit and rallery to-night}Perhaps might please, but that your stage delight}No more is in your minds, but ears and sight.}With audiences compos'd of belles and beaux,The first dramatick rule is, have good clothes,To charm the gay spectator's gentle breast,}In lace and feather Tragedy's express'd,}And heroes die unpity'd, if ill-dress'd.}The other stile you full as well advance;If 'tis a comedy, you ask——who dance?For oh! what dire convulsions have of lateTorn and distracted each dramatick state,On this great question, which house first should sellThe newFrenchsteps imported byRuel!Desbarquescan't rise so high, we must agree,They've half a foot in height more wit than we.But tho' the genius of our learned age}Thinks fit to dance and sing, quite off the stage,}True action, comic mirth, and tragic rage;}Yet as your taste now stands, our author drawsSome hopes of your indulgence and applause.For that great end this edifice he made,Where humble swain at lady's feet is laid;Where the pleas'd nymph her conquer'd lover spies,}Then to glass pillars turns her conscious eyes,}And points anew each charm, for which he dies.}The muse, before nor terrible nor great,Enjoys by him this awful gilded seat:By him theatric angels mount more high,And mimick thunders shake a broader sky.Thus all must own, our author has done moreFor your delight, than any bard before.His thoughts are still to raise your pleasures fill'd;To write, translate, to blazon, or to build.Then take him in a lump, nor nicely pryInto small faults that 'scape a busy eye;But kindly, Sirs, consider, he to-dayFinds you the house, the actors, and the play:So, tho' we stage-mechanick rules omit,You must allow it in a whole-sale wit.
Ourauthor's wit and rallery to-night}Perhaps might please, but that your stage delight}No more is in your minds, but ears and sight.}With audiences compos'd of belles and beaux,The first dramatick rule is, have good clothes,To charm the gay spectator's gentle breast,}In lace and feather Tragedy's express'd,}And heroes die unpity'd, if ill-dress'd.}
The other stile you full as well advance;If 'tis a comedy, you ask——who dance?For oh! what dire convulsions have of lateTorn and distracted each dramatick state,On this great question, which house first should sellThe newFrenchsteps imported byRuel!Desbarquescan't rise so high, we must agree,They've half a foot in height more wit than we.But tho' the genius of our learned age}Thinks fit to dance and sing, quite off the stage,}True action, comic mirth, and tragic rage;}Yet as your taste now stands, our author drawsSome hopes of your indulgence and applause.For that great end this edifice he made,Where humble swain at lady's feet is laid;Where the pleas'd nymph her conquer'd lover spies,}Then to glass pillars turns her conscious eyes,}And points anew each charm, for which he dies.}
The muse, before nor terrible nor great,Enjoys by him this awful gilded seat:By him theatric angels mount more high,And mimick thunders shake a broader sky.Thus all must own, our author has done moreFor your delight, than any bard before.His thoughts are still to raise your pleasures fill'd;To write, translate, to blazon, or to build.Then take him in a lump, nor nicely pryInto small faults that 'scape a busy eye;But kindly, Sirs, consider, he to-dayFinds you the house, the actors, and the play:So, tho' we stage-mechanick rules omit,You must allow it in a whole-sale wit.