There still remains, to mortify a wit, The many-headed monster of the pit: A senseless, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd; Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud, Clattering their sticks before ten lines are spoke. Call for the farce, the bear, or the black-joke. What dear delight to Britons farce affords! 310 Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords; (Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes). The play stands still; damn action and discourse, Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn; The champion too; and, to complete the jest, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast[153] With laughter, sure, Democritus had died, 320 Had he beheld an audience gape so wide. Let bear or elephant be e'er so white, The people, sure, the people are the sight! Ah, luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar, That bear or elephant shall heed thee more; While all its throats the gallery extends, And all the thunder of the pit ascends! Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steep, Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep. Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, 330 At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat; Or when from court a birthday suit bestow'd, Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load. Booth enters--hark! the universal peal! 'But has he spoken?' Not a syllable. What shook the stage, and made the people stare? Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair. Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, Let me for once presume to instruct the times, 340 To know the poet from the man of rhymes: 'Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains, Can make me feel each passion that he feigns; Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, With pity, and with terror, tear my heart: And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air, To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. But not this part of the poetic state Alone, deserves the favour of the great: Think of those authors, sir, who would rely 350 More on a reader's sense, than gazer's eye. Or who shall wander where the Muses sing? Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring? How shall we fill a library with wit, When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?