Classic Poem

spoken by Mr. Woodward in the character of a fine gentleman

Pshaw, damn your epilogue and hold your tongue!
Shall we of rank be told what's right and wrong?
Had you ten epilogues you should not speak 'em,
Though he had writ 'em all in linguum Grecum.
I'll do't by all the gods! — you must excuse me —
Though author, actors, audience, all abuse me.

Behold a gentleman, and that's enough!
Laugh if you please — I'll take a pinch of snuff.
I come to tell you — let it not surprise you —
That I'm a wit and worthy to advise you.
How could you suffer that same country booby,
That pro-logue speaking savage, that great looby,
To talk his nonsense? Give me leave to say
'Twas low, damned low — but save the fellow's play —
Let the poor devil eat, allow him that,
And give a meal to measter, mon and cat.
But why attack the fashions? Senseless rogue!
We have no joys but what result from vogue.
The mode should all control — nay, every passion,
Sense, appetite and all give way to fashion.
I hate as much as he a turtle-feast,
But till the present turtle rage has ceased,
I'd ride a hundred miles to make myself a beast.
I have no ears, yet operas I adore,
Always prepared to die, to sleep, no more
The ladies too were carped at, and their dress;
He wants 'em all ruffed up like good Queen Bess.
They are, forsooth, too much exposed and free.
Were more exposed no ill effects I see,
For, more or less, 'tis all the same to me.
Poor gaming, too, was mauled among the rest,
That precious cordial to a high-life breast.
When thoughts arise I always game or drink;
An English gentleman should never think.
The reason's plain, which every soul might hit on —
What trims a Frenchman oversets a Briton.
In us reflection breeds a sober sadness
Which always ends in politics or madness.
I therefore now propose — by your command —
That tragedies no more shall cloud this land.
Send o'er your Shakespeares to the sons of France,
Let them grow grave, let us begin to dance.
Banish your gloomy scenes to foreign climes,
Reserve alone to bless these golden times
A farce or two — and Woodward's pantomimes.