Merryfellow. Pshaw! Time will reap his own; but in our power The moment lies, and we must use the hour. The Future, no doubt, is the Present's heir, But we who live must first enjoy our share. Methinks the present of a goodly boy Has something that the wisest might enjoy. Whose ready lips with easy lightness brim, The people's humor need not trouble him; He courts a crowd the surer to impart The quickening word that stirs the kindred heart. Quit ye like men, be honest bards and true, Let Fancy with her many-sounding chorus, Reason, Sense, Feeling, Passion, move before us, But, mark me well--a spice of folly too! Manager. Give what you please, so that you give but plenty; They come to see, and you must feed their eyes; Scene upon scene, each act may have its twenty, To keep them gaping still in fresh surprise: This is the royal road to public favor; You snatch it thus, and it is yours for ever. A mass of things alone the mass secures; Each comes at last and culls his own from yours. Bring much, and every one is sure to find, In your rich nosegay, something to his mind. You give a piece, give it at once in pieces; Such a ragout each taste and temper pleases, And spares, if only they were wise to know it, Much fruitless toil to player and to poet. In vain into an artful whole you glue it; The public in the long run will undo it. Poet. What? feel you not the vileness of this trade? How much the genuine artist ye degrade? The bungling practice of our hasty school You raise into a maxim and a rule.