Ne'er did I colours high in air advance, Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;[87] No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote, With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat. Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me, Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free; Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound, And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground. Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! 180 Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn; Uncensured let the gentle breezes rove Through the green umbrage of the enchanted grove: Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile, And play the coxcomb in the 'Desert Isle.' The stage I chose--a subject fair and free-- 'Tis yours--'tis mine--'tis public property. All common exhibitions open lie, For praise or censure, to the common eye. Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; 190 Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread. This is a general tax which all must pay, From those who scribble, down to those who play. Actors, a venal crew, receive support From public bounty for the public sport. To clap or hiss all have an equal claim, The cobbler's and his lordship's right's the same. All join for their subsistence; all expect Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct. When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, 200 The three days' wonder of his laughing friends, Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides, The lively witling praises or derides. And where's the mighty difference, tell me where, Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player? The strolling tribe--a despicable race!-- Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place. Vagrants by law, to justice open laid, They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid, And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life 210 To Madam Mayoress, or his Worship's wife. The mighty monarch, in theatric sack, Carries his whole regalia at his back; His royal consort heads the female band, And leads the heir apparent in her hand; The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride, Bearing a future prince on either side. No choice musicians in this troop are found, To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound; No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; 220 No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll; No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown; The monarch here must be a host alone: No solemn pomp, no slow processions here; No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier. By need compell'd to prostitute his art, The varied actor flies from part to part; And--strange disgrace to all theatric pride!-- His character is shifted with his side. Question and answer he by turns must be, 230 Like that small wit in modern tragedy,[88] Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse-- Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.