His soul, of every other thought bereft, Is anxious only where to place the left; He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse; To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows: Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill Of moving gracefully, or standing still, One leg, as if suspicious of his brother, Desirous seems to run away from t'other. 440 Some errors, handed down from age to age, Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage. That's vile: should we a parent's faults adore, And err, because our fathers err'd before? If, inattentive to the author's mind, Some actors made the jest they could not find; If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien, And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene, Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd, Not see their faults, or seeing, not avoid? 450 When Falstaff stands detected in a lie, Why, without meaning, rolls Love's[33] glassy eye? Why? There's no cause--at least no cause we know-- It was the fashion twenty years ago. Fashion!--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse. To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence To fame--to copy faults, is want of sense. Yet (though in some particulars he fails, Some few particulars, where mode prevails) 460 If in these hallow'd times, when, sober, sad, All gentlemen are melancholy mad; When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half To violate a vestal as to laugh, Rude mirth may hope, presumptuous, to engage An act of toleration for the stage; And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures, Suspend vain fashion, and unscrew their features; Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more, And humour set the audience in a roar. 470 Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name, Who, being from one part possess'd of fame, Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl, Still introduce that favourite part in all. Here, Love, be cautious--ne'er be thou betray'd To call in that wag Falstaff's dangerous aid; Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend, He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend. In a peculiar mould by Humour cast, For Falstaff framed--himself the first and last-- 480 He stands aloof from all--maintains his state, And scorns, like Scotsmen, to assimilate. Vain all disguise--too plain we see the trick, Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic[34]; And Boniface[35] disgraced, betrays the smack, In _anno Domini_, of Falstaff sack. Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching slow, A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow; Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog, Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog, 490 They curse the managers, and curse the town Whose partial favour keeps such merit down. But if some man, more hardy than the rest, Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest, At once they rise with impotence of rage, Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage: