Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sent to night
By our young bardling — he's in such a fright,
Trembling behind the scenes and out of breath,
Pale as the ghost of Banquo in Macbeth.
'Twere pity ladies, when so meek to maul him,
And yet perhaps too much applause might spoil him.
He looked so scared I wondered what could ail him;
He faultering said his heart began to fail him:
The grave ones chid — he saw twould never please
And humbly begged he might withdraw his piece.
No, no young man, you must not baulk the town;
You're in the lists, you've thrown the gauntlet down,
You're gone too far, said I, there's no receding;
Set the best face you can on the proceeding.
At length he acquiesced, but begged me say
Something to recommend this infant play.
His moving words might even critics melt,
Had pity e'er in critics' bosoms dwelt.
Looked innocent, and vowed he meant no ill
When for the lancet he took up the quill;
That plays and recipes had no relation,
Could not with Falstaff say 'twas his vocation,
Twas foreign from the task to him assigned
To wake new feelings in the callous mind,
With skill to set distorted judgments right,
To purge the taste, and clear the mental sight;
Yet hoped a volunteer might pardoned be
Who ventured to prescribe without a fee.
Too oft, he said, the Comic muse had wrought
A tempting poison, and a beauteous fault;
Too oft distorted in her magic glass,
The broken images of things would pass;
Unreal scenes in fairy colours drest,
And sacred forms disguised in motley vest,
The simple hearted stripling to beguile
And point at worth, the sly sarcastic smile.
His talents, were they e'er so great or small,
Shou'd sacred be — to virtue sacred all;
Dear were her rules, and honoured was her cause,
More binding hers than Aristotle's laws.
For her divines should plead on
The wit his pen, his sword the soldier draw,
And mimic scenes in sweet enchantment drest
Should point their battery at the feeling breast.
To serve her cause he drew up this prescription;
A two-act sermon 'tis by his description.
Nay, you may yawn, a sermon I assure ye
Fit for the gravest synod of old jewry.
But lest you should be too much startled he
Has gilt the pill, and calls it comedy —
And truly now, our author bolder grown
Looked big and blustered in a louder tone;
Said he had laid his former schemes aside
And spoke for virtue with a conscious pride;
Critics might as they pleased commend, or blame,
He did not seek so poor a thing as fame;
Was careless now of censure or applause,
And could not fail to triumph — in his cause.
By our young bardling — he's in such a fright,
Trembling behind the scenes and out of breath,
Pale as the ghost of Banquo in Macbeth.
'Twere pity ladies, when so meek to maul him,
And yet perhaps too much applause might spoil him.
He looked so scared I wondered what could ail him;
He faultering said his heart began to fail him:
The grave ones chid — he saw twould never please
And humbly begged he might withdraw his piece.
No, no young man, you must not baulk the town;
You're in the lists, you've thrown the gauntlet down,
You're gone too far, said I, there's no receding;
Set the best face you can on the proceeding.
At length he acquiesced, but begged me say
Something to recommend this infant play.
His moving words might even critics melt,
Had pity e'er in critics' bosoms dwelt.
Looked innocent, and vowed he meant no ill
When for the lancet he took up the quill;
That plays and recipes had no relation,
Could not with Falstaff say 'twas his vocation,
Twas foreign from the task to him assigned
To wake new feelings in the callous mind,
With skill to set distorted judgments right,
To purge the taste, and clear the mental sight;
Yet hoped a volunteer might pardoned be
Who ventured to prescribe without a fee.
Too oft, he said, the Comic muse had wrought
A tempting poison, and a beauteous fault;
Too oft distorted in her magic glass,
The broken images of things would pass;
Unreal scenes in fairy colours drest,
And sacred forms disguised in motley vest,
The simple hearted stripling to beguile
And point at worth, the sly sarcastic smile.
His talents, were they e'er so great or small,
Shou'd sacred be — to virtue sacred all;
Dear were her rules, and honoured was her cause,
More binding hers than Aristotle's laws.
For her divines should plead on
The wit his pen, his sword the soldier draw,
And mimic scenes in sweet enchantment drest
Should point their battery at the feeling breast.
To serve her cause he drew up this prescription;
A two-act sermon 'tis by his description.
Nay, you may yawn, a sermon I assure ye
Fit for the gravest synod of old jewry.
But lest you should be too much startled he
Has gilt the pill, and calls it comedy —
And truly now, our author bolder grown
Looked big and blustered in a louder tone;
Said he had laid his former schemes aside
And spoke for virtue with a conscious pride;
Critics might as they pleased commend, or blame,
He did not seek so poor a thing as fame;
Was careless now of censure or applause,
And could not fail to triumph — in his cause.