Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try For strength of arms and energy of eye; With vigour lost, and spirits worn away, Her pomp and pride she labours to display; And when awhile she's tried her part to act, To find her thoughts arrested by some fact; When struggles more and more severe are seen, In the plain actress than the Danish queen, - At length she feels her part, she finds delight, And fancies all the plaudits of the night; Old as she is, she smiles at every speech, And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach, But as the mist of vanity again Is blown away, by press of present pain, Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies; Then to her task she sighing turns again - "Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!" And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing, Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing? Panting for breath and forced her voice to drop, And far unlike the inmate of the shop, Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay, Laugh'd off at night the labours of the day; With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers, And sister-converse pass'd the evening hours: But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong, Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong; The morning-call and counter were her dread, And her contempt the needle and the thread: But when she read a gentle damsel's part, Her woe, her wish! she had them all by heart. At length the hero of the boards drew nigh, Who spake of love till sigh re-echo'd sigh; He told in honey'd words his deathless flame, And she his own by tender vows became; Nor ring nor licence needed souls so fond, Alfonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond: And thus the simple girl, to shame betray'd, Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay'd. Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope, See her! the grief and scandal of the troop; A wretched martyr to a childish pride, Her woe insulted, and her praise denied: Her humble talents, though derided, used, Her prospects lost, her confidence abused; All that remains--for she not long can brave Increase of evils--is an early grave. Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed What dreams you cherish, and what books ye read! A decent sum had Peter Nottage made, By joining bricks--to him a thriving trade: Of his employment master and his wife, This humble tradesman led a lordly life; The house of kings and heroes lack'd repairs, And Peter, though reluctant, served the Players: Connected thus, he heard in way polite, - "Come, Master Nottage, see us play to night," At first 'twas folly, nonsense, idle stuff, But seen for nothing it grew well enough; And better now--now best, and every night, In this fool's paradise he drank delight; And as he felt the bliss, he wish'd to know Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow; For if the seeing could such pleasure bring, What must the feeling?--feeling like a king? In vain his wife, his uncle, and his friend, Cried--"Peter! Peter! let such follies end;