Classic Poem

spoken by Mrs. Pritchard

Though the young smarts, I see, begin to sneer,
And the old sinners cast a wicked leer,
Be not alarmed ye fair — you've nought to fear.
No wanton hint, no loose ambiguous sense
Shall flatter vicious taste at your expense.
Leaving for once these shameless arts in vogue,
We give a fable for the epilogue.

An ass there was, our author bid me say,
Who needs must write. He did — and wrote a play.
The parts were cast to various beasts and fowl,
Their stage a barn, the manager an owl.
The house was crammed at six with friends and foes —
Rakes, wits and critics, citizens and beaux.
These characters appeared in different shapes
Of tigers, foxes, horses, bulls and apes;
With others, too, of lower rank and station —
A perfect abstract of the brute creation.
Each as he felt marked out the author's faults,
And thus the connoisseurs expressed their thoughts.
The critic-curs first snarled " The rules are broke!
Time, place and action sacrificed to joke! "
The goats cried out 'twas formal, dull and chaste,
Not writ for beasts of gallantry and taste.
The horned cattle were in piteous taking
At fornication, rapes and cuckold-making.
The tigers swore he wanted fire and passion.
The apes condemned because it was the fashion.
The generous steeds allowed him proper merit,
Here marked his faults and there approved his spirit;
While brother bards brayed forth with usual spleen,
And, as they heard, exploded every scene.
When Reynard's thoughts were asked, the shrugging sage,
Famed for hypocrisy and worn with age,
Condemned the shameless licence of the stage.
At which the monkey skipped from box to box
And whispered round the judgement of the fox,
Abused the moderns, talked of Rome and Greece,
Bilked every box-keeper and damned the piece.

Now every fable has a moral to it.
Be churchman, statesman, anything but poet.
In law or physic quack in what you will.
Cant and grimace conceal the want of skill.
Secure in these his gravity may pass —
But here no artifice can hide the ass.