_C. M._ He lives: but, oh, disgrace to letters! long Has left me for the sweets of dissipation, Left me whose hand had crowned his head with honours, And still would crown,--to join the noisy band Of brawling, jangling, patriot politicians. At length his wonderful deserts have raised him[7] To the top of office; and the quondam play-wright. Ungrateful scorning fair Thalia’s favours, Courts the green Naiades of Somerset. _P._ But have you not the classic Cumberland?[8] _C. M._ He still exists: but ah! how chang’d from him Whose gen’rous Belcour touch’d all hearts with rapture, Whose honest Major charm’d with native humour, Whose Charlotte, pleasant, frank and open hearted, Call’d forth our tears of pleasure--April showers! His pages now, stuff’d with false maudlin sentiment, Scarce please our whimpering-girls and driveling ensigns: _P._ But laughing Colman[9] lives, a son of humour. _C. M._ ’Tis true--his dashes of coarse fun and drollery, Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant’s brow, And loose a stoic’s muscles: and sometimes Beneath his various merry-andrew coat I’ve thought I spied the stamp of manly genius, Some vestige of his father’s purest wit. But ah! I fear ’twas a false light betray’d me. Let him write farce; but let him not presume To jumble fun and opera, grave and comic, In one vile mess--then call the mixture Shakspeare. No more of him: my hopes are all evanish’d, For “Hexham’s battle,” slew him: “The Iron Chest” Sunk him to Shadwell’s bathos; and “John Bull” Drove off in wild affright the polish’d muse. _P._ Sure there are more, whose names have not yet reach’d me. _C. M._ Why should I rescue from oblivion’s flood, Such names as Morton, Reynolds, Dibdin, Cherry. Morton a melancholy wight, whose muse, Now sighs and sobs, like newly bottled ale, Now splits her ugly mouth with grinning.[10] Reynolds,[11] whose muse most monstrous and misshapen, Outvies the hideous form that Horace drew. Dibdin[12] a ballad monger--and for Cherry-- But Cherry has no character at all. _P._ Who is the favour’d bard you come to seek? _C. M._ For sterling wit and manly sense combin’d, Where, Congreve, shall I find thy parallel? For charming ease, who equals polish’d Vanbrugh? Where shall we see such graceful pleasantry As Farquhar’s muse with lavish bounty scatters? But yet, ye great triumvirate--I fear To call you back to earth, for ye debas’d With vile impurities the comic muse, And made her delicate mouth pronounce such things As would disgust a Wilmot in full blood, Or shock an Atheist roaring o’er his cups[13] O shameful profligate abuse of powers, Indulg’d to you for higher, nobler purposes, Than to pollute the sacred fount of virtue, Which, plac’d by heaven, springs in each human breast. _P._ Too true your words. But what of Massinger?[14]