His action's always strong, but sometimes such, That candour must declare he acts too much. Why must impatience fall three paces back? Why paces three return to the attack? 1010 Why is the right leg, too, forbid to stir, Unless in motion semicircular? Why must the hero with the Nailor[79] vie, And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye? In Royal John, with Philip angry grown, I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down. Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame To fright a king so harmless and so tame? But, spite of all defects, his glories rise, And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies. 1020 Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's[80] soul, Whilst in his own contending passions roll; View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan, And then deny him merit, if you can. Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone; Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own. Last Garrick[81] came. Behind him throng a train Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. One finds out--He's of stature somewhat low-- Your hero always should be tall, you know; 1030 True natural greatness all consists in height. Produce your voucher, Critic.--Serjeant Kite.[82] Another can't forgive the paltry arts By which he makes his way to shallow hearts; Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause-- 'Avaunt! unnatural start, affected pause!' For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm, I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. The best things carried to excess are wrong; The start may be too frequent, pause too long: 1040 But, only used in proper time and place, Severest judgment must allow them grace. If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan, Just in the way that monkeys mimic man, Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace, And pause and start with the same vacant face, We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn. But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source, These strokes of acting flow with generous force, 1050 When in the features all the soul's portray'd, And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd, To me they seem from quickest feelings caught-- Each start is nature, and each pause is thought. When reason yields to passion's wild alarms, And the whole state of man is up in arms, What but a critic could condemn the player For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there? Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it strongly flaming to the face; 1060 Whilst in each sound I hear the very man, I can't catch words, and pity those who can. Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; The gods,--a kindness I with thanks must pay,-- Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay; Not stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleased: Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,