The tunic dazzling with its golden pride, The button-hole gay-wrought with wondrous art, The mode-cut collar, and well-fancied sleeve, Had oft proclaim'd his taste. Yet not to this Was his great soul confin'd. Theatra now, Dramatic goddess, whispers in his ear, And bids him shine away in Foppington. Where's now that stately flatness of the gait? That easy stiffness where? so often seen In thee, O Cibber! and so oft admir'd, Alas! how faintly, rudely copied here! With joints inflexible, and neck oblique, An object stiff'ning to the sight he stands In attitude unmeaning, and deprives Each injur'd word of its emphatic due. He finish'd, when the wonted noise begins, Loud as his all-attentive ears can wish; Nor less than that which shakes the bending stairs To the Theatric semicircled seats, Hight upper gallery, ductive, when some Grand-habited scene-boasting pantomime, From 'hind their compters, and from cleaning knives, And from tenebrious porter-breathing cells, Where all day long in glee they tippling sat, Calls forth the terrene quick-ascending gods. Prologues and epilogues increase the sport, To periodize the humours of the night Now far advanced; goes round the jovial song, The laugh-exciting catch, or wanton tale Re-iterated. Bacchus, King of Joys, Twines not his vine-branch here. "Trueman's entire" Reigns arbitrary. With its vapours bland Their giddy-rolling heads anointed turn Upon an axis brittle. Total noise Its anarchy extends. But oh! how soon Terrestrial mirth evaporates. Amidst Their jocund glee, and lovely-floating hours, Enter the Constables. Ten watchmen brave Their presence dignify. Amazement chill Sits on each spouting face. So looks the wretch Involv'd in debt, when first he spies the front-- The front most hated of a Catch-pole grim. Not e'en Macbeth stands more appall'd with fear, When murder'd Banquo's horrid-glaring ghost Disturbs the regal banquet. Such, so great Their fear unmanly, that their passive souls To their hard fate submit. Restless all, All walk desponding to the round-house dire; And one sad exit terminates the scene. All hail to thee! thou young dramatic bard! Ingenious M-rp-y, hail! Before thy shrine I bend the knee. This epidemic rage Well hast thou ridicul'd. Oh! may thy scenes On Fame's high-pending annals be enroll'd: And as thy Muse shall henceforth deign to grace Th'enlighten'd scene, and with a steady hand To hold up Nature's mirrour, may the tribe Of snarling Critics, with invidious eyes, View the bright image, and confess it true."