Classic Poem

Happy the bard, the drama must confess,
Who first converted prologues to address;
And found the way to charm the critic fury,
By gentle supplication to the jury:
Thus when some Richard burns with tragic rage,
Or mad Ophelia pants to tread the stage;
Thanks to the mode — and writers only know it,
Their dulness is preceded by the poet;
And crimson blushes, starts, and trembling fears,
Are partly hush'd ere " Sir or ma'am " appears;
But why o'er reason should our fears prevail,
Where Mercy reigns, and Justice holds the scale?
From this kind soil, made moist by Candour's dew,
Your Edwin came, and caught his fame from you.
Here — with each pow'r to fill the changeful scene,
To court the Comic or the Tragic Queen —
Here, on these boards, poor Henderson first rose,
Yet felt the fear that genius had its foes;
You saw the man, approv'd the actor's claim,
And stamp'd the signature that grac'd his name.
Here natural Wells and Farren own their birth,
And drew from you the wreath that crowns their worth.
To night a female ventures here to tread,
" With all her imperfections on her head; "
Tis Cowslip's sister — — who will be severe?
Who blast the bud, his soft'ring breath might rear?

(To the Galleries.)

Ye critic Lingos, there enthron'd on high,
What you can grant to ladies, ne'er deny.

(To the Pit.)

This aweful box, where lagal jurors fit,
Sworn and impanell'd to preside o'er wit:
To trust your candour let no female rue,
But prove yourselves in deed — good men and true.

(To the Boxes.)

While in this circle, our fair judges here
As counsel for the prisoner appear;
Soften the rigours of the legislature,
And shew there's no good judge without good-nature.