The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn; Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd, The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud: 60 These are their parts--and he who these sustains Deserves some praise and profit for his pains. Heroes at least of gentler kind are they, } Against whose swords no weeping widows pray, } No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their way. } Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress'd; Your days all pass'd in jeopardy and jest; Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain, Not warn'd by misery, not enrich'd by gain; Whom justice pitying, chides from place to place, 70 A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race; Who cheerful looks assume, and play the parts Of happy rovers with repining hearts; Then cast off care, and in the mimic pain Of tragic wo, feel spirits light and vain, Distress and hope--the mind's, the body's wear, The man's affliction, and the actor's tear: Alternate times of fasting and excess Are yours, ye smiling children of distress. Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems, 80 } And with your varying views and restless schemes, } Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams. } Yet keen those griefs--ah! what avail thy charms, Fair Juliet! what that infant in thine arms; What those heroic lines thy patience learns, What all the aid thy present Romeo earns, Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain, With all thy plaintive sisters to complain? Nor is there lack of labour.--To rehearse, Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse; 90 To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite; To hide in rant the heart-ache of the night; To dress in gaudy patch-work, and to force The mind to think on the appointed course: This is laborious, and may be defined The bootless labour of the thriftless mind. There is a veteran dame--I see her stand Intent and pensive with her book in hand; Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part, Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart; 100 Across the room she paces, gets her tone, And fits her features for the Danish throne; To-night a queen--I mark her motion slow, I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know. Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try For strength of arms and energy of eye; With vigour lost, and spirits worn away, Her pomp and pride she labours to display; And when awhile she's tried her part to act, To find her thoughts arrested by some fact; 110 When struggles more and more severe are seen In the plain actress than the Danish queen;-- At length she feels her part, she finds delight, And fancies all the plaudits of the night: Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,