Classic Poem

spoken by Mrs. Yates

Bless me, this summer work is so fatiguing!
And then our play's so bustling, so intriguing!
Such miffing, sighing, scolding, all together!
These love affairs suit best with colder weather.
At this warm time these writers should not treat you
With so much love and passion, for they'll heat you.
Poets, like weavers, should, with taste and reason,
Adapt their various goods to every season.
For the hot months the fanciful and slight;
For mind and body something cool and light.
Authors themselves, indeed, neglect this rule,
Dress warm in summer and at Christmas cool.
I told our bard within these five-act plays
Are rich brocades unfit for sultry days.
Were you a cook, said I, would you prepare
Large hams and roasted sirloins for your fare?
Their very smoke would pall a city glutton.
A tragedy would make you all unbutton.
Both appetites now ask for daintier picking —
Farce, pantomime, cold lamb or white-legged chicken.
At Ranelagh fine rolls and butter see,
Signor Tenducci and the best green tea.
Italian singing is as light as feather —
Beard is too loud, too powerful for this weather.
Vauxhall more solidly regales your palates —
Champagne, cantatas, cold boiled beef and ballads.
What shall we do your different tastes to hit?
You relish satire (To the pit) ; you ragouts of wit. (Boxes)
Your taste is humour and high-seasoned joke; (First gallery)
You call for hornpipes and for " Hearts of oak "
O could I wish and have! A conjuring man
Once told my fortune and he charmed this fan —
Said with a flirt I might my will enjoy.
Think you there's magic in this little toy?
I'll try its power; and, if I gain my wish,
I'll give you, sirs, a downright English dish.
Come then, a song. (Flirts and music is heard) Indeed, I see 'twill do.
Take heed, gallants, I'll play the deuce with you.
Whene'er I please I'll charm you to my sight,
And tear a fan with flirting every night,
Enter two ballad singers, who sing the following song.

Ye critics above and ye critics below,
Ye finer-spun critics who keep the mid row,
O tarry a moment, I'll sing you a song
Shall prove that, like us, you are all in the wrong.

Ye poets who mount on the famed winged steed,
Of prancing and wincing and kicking take heed;
For when by those hornets, the critics, you're stung,
You're thrown in the dirt and are all in the wrong.

Ye actors who act what these writers have writ,
Pray stick to you poet and spare your own wit;
For when with your own you unbridle your tongue,
I'll hold ten to one you are all in the wrong.

Ye knaves who make news for the foolish to read,
Who print daily slanders the hungry to feed;
For a while you mislead 'em, the news-hunting throng,
Till the pillory proves you are all in the wrong.

Ye grave politicians, so deep and so wise,
With your hums and your shrugs and your uplifted eyes,
The road that you travel is tedious and long,
But I pray you log on — you are all in the wrong.

Ye happy fond husbands and fond happy wives,
Let never suspicion embitter your lives,
Let your prudence be stout and your faith be as strong —
Who watch or who catch, they are all in the wrong.

Ye unmarried folks, be not bought or be sold,
Let age avoid youth and the young ones the old;
For they'll soon get together, the young with the young,
And then, my wise old ones, you're all in the wrong.

Ye soldiers and sailors who bravely have fought,
Who honour and glory and laurels have bought,
Let your foes but appear you'll be at 'em ding dong,
And if they come near you, they're all in the wrong.

Ye judges of taste to our labours be kind,
Our errors are many, pray wink or be blind;
Still find your way hither to glad us each night,
And our note we will change to: " You're all in the right. "