Now to the DRAMA turn--oh, motley sight! What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! Puns, and a prince within a _barrel_ pent,[11] And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. Though now, thank heaven! the _Roscio mania's_ o'er, And full-grown actors are endured once more; Yet, what avails their vain attempts to please, While British critics suffer scenes like these; While Reynolds vents his '_dammes_, _poohs_' and '_zounds_'[12] And common place, and common sense confounds? While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed, Proclaims the audience very kind indeed? And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words?[13] Who but must mourn while these are all the rage, The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit?--none? Awake, George Colman! --Cumberland, awake! Ring the alarum bell, let Folly quake! Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, Let Comedy resume her throne again, Abjure the mummery of German schools, Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, One classic drama, and reform the stage. Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread? On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask, And Hook conceal his heroes in a _cask_? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim, The rival candidates for attic fame! In grim array though Lewis'[14] spectres rise, Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. And sure _great_ Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays Renowned alike; whose Genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs;[15] Nor sleeps with 'Sleeping Beauties,' but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on,[16] While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene, Keeps wondering what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame? Well may the Nobles of our present race Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, And worship Catalani's pantaloons,[17] Since their own drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. Then let Ausonia, skill'd in ev'ry art To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, To sanction Vice and hunt Decorum down: Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, And bless the promise which his form displays;