Enough of Actors--let them play the player, And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare; Garrick[276] abroad, what motives can engage To waste one couplet on a barren stage? Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days, In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise; When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years, Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears; When in return for labour, time, and health, The town had given some little share of wealth, 10 Couldst thou repine at being still a slave? Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave? Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes? Whom, too refined for honesty and trade, By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made; Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules, Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools; With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime, In such a manner, and at such a time, 20 To quit the stage; but men of real sense, Who neither lightly give, nor take offence, Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace, Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place. Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail, Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale? Why must they pity, why contempt express, And why insult a brother in distress? Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; 30 Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom, And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb. Let those who without genius write, and write, Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite, The pen laid down, their course of folly run In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone. Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate, That Francis once endeavour'd to translate? Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head, Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? 40 Why may not Langhorne,[277] simple in his lay, Effusion on effusion pour away; With friendship and with fancy trifle here, Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere? Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne, Secure from any malice but their own. Enough of Critics--let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant state, Their subjects many, and those subjects great, 50 Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed, With fools who write, and greater fools who read. What though they lay the realms of Genius waste, Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste; Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill, Consult not how to cure, but how to kill; Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, They damn those authors whom they never read; Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold, To deal out so much praise for so much gold: 60 Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues, Against the commonwealth of letters leagues; Uncensured let them pilot at the helm,