As sailors oft they hail’d Britannia’s shore; As forty thieves they spurn’d the Sultan’s yoke; Their shoulders oft Peruvian Rolla bore; How bow’d their heads when mighty Bluebeard spoke. Let not tragedians mock their useful toil, Their russet boots by hundreds worn before; Nor fashion hear, with a disdainful smile, The lowly annals of our Thespian corps. The dice of Beverley, the straw of Lear, And all that Hamlet, all Macbeth e’er gave, In the fifth act conclude their high career―― For tragic glory leads but to the grave. Nor you, rich actors, lay on these the blame, If their poor names no daily journals raise, Where, thro’ the long-drawn column, bent on fame, The editor resounds the note of praise. Can studied puffs an actor’s fame decide, Or to a throne a mute attendant carry? Can praise give pow’rs that nature has denied, Or make Beau Clincher equal to Sir Harry? Perhaps in these neglected ranks has stray’d Some swelling bosom, fraught with tragic fire; Tongues that Othello’s vengeance might have stay’d, Or base Iago prov’d a living liar! But authors to their eyes their ample plays, Rich in fine acting parts did never bring; The manager repress’d their mental blaze, And pent them up in chorusses to sing. Of sonnetteers, full many a rhyming moan, The monthly magazines, unread, contain; Full many a joke is cut to die unknown, Lost in the echoing dome of Drury Lane. Some unknown Garrick, with advent’rous wing, Clipp’d by the shears of want and melancholy; Some low, inglorious Braham here may sing, Some Betty, guiltless of a nation’s folly! Th’ applause of wondering boxes to attract, Their face engraved in public shops to boast, T’ ensure a full box-book whene’er they act, And read their history in the _Morning Post_, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone, Their growing talents, but their faults unseen T’ omit the author’s jest, insert their own Or woo the boxes while they slight the scene. By mummery the writer’s text to hide, Their influence o’er the galleries to boast, Or mar the play, and decency deride, With nonsense purchas’d at the muse’s cost. Far from the rattling squares and Fashioned sport, Their small finances rather bade them stay In Russell Street, Long Acre, Martlet Court; Convenient spots contiguous to the play! Yet e’en these names from Lethe to protect, Some lengthen’d play-bill still erected there, With letters of all sorts and sizes deck’d, Implores the passing tribute of a stare! Their names, their characters, a motley pack; Great heroes first, and mute attendants last: Robbers and senators, in red and black, To show the public how the parts are cast.