Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town, Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down. ’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen, And critic fury tears away the green; Monopoly now grasps the whole domain, And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain. No wit or humour marks the lively play, But puns and quibbles make their saucy way; Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest, Dull Declamation snores herself to rest. The place of elegance a stare supplies, And affectation that nor laughs nor cries. Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all, For he acts best who can the loudest bawl; Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage, To fright astonish’d reason from the stage. Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey, Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay; Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade, A puff can make them, as a puff has made, But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride, When once destroy’d, can never be supplied. * * * * * Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close, Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose; There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow, In Hamlet――looked unutterable woe! Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved, Barry grew agonised in――“not much mov’d.” There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court, Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport. There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn. Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn. There the apt tune in timely moment play’d, To fill each pause the _exeunt_ had made. But now simplicity’s soft accents fail, And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail. No friends to Nature on the boards now tread, But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled! * * * * * Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet, Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street, There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool, Good Master Shuter first was put to school. Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low, “Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.” Well did the tittering audience love to trace The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face; Well would the busy whisper circle round, When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d; Yet he was kind――but if absurd in aught, The love he bore to blackguards was in fault. The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew, ’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too. While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound, Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around: And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew, That one droll head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame――the Rose and Crown, Where he so oft got tipsy――is burnt down.