“You ne’er saw Quin the stage adorn: He acted ere your sire was born, And critics, sir, who liv’d before you, Would have disclos’d a different story. This play I’ve better acted seen In country towns where I have been. I do not hesitate to say— I’d rather read this very play By my own parlour fireside, With my poor judgment for my guide, Than see the actors of this stage, Who make me gape at Shakespeare’s page. When I read Falstaff to myself, I laugh like any merry elf; While my mind feels a cheering glow That Shakespeare only can bestow. The swaggering words in his defence, Which scarce are wit and yet are sense; The ribald jest—the quick conceit— The boast of many a braggart feat; The half-grave questions and replies In his high-wrought soliloquies; The dubious thought—the pleasant prate, Which give no time to love or hate, In such succession do they flow, From no to yea—from yea to no, Have not been to my mind convey’d By this pretender to his trade. The smile sarcastic, and the leer That tells the laughing mock’ry near; The warning look, that ere ’tis spoke Aptly forbodes the coming joke; The air so solemn, yet so sly, Shap’d to conceal the ready lie; The eyes, with some shrewd meaning bright, I surely have not seen to-night: Again, I must beg leave to tell ye, ’Tis nought of Falstaff but his belly.” CRITIC.— “All this is fine—and may be true; But with such truths I’ve nought to do. I’m sure, sir, I shall say aright, When I report the great delight Th’ enraptur’d audience feel to-night; It is indeed, with no small sorrow, I cannot your opinions borrow To fill the columns of to-morrow. My light critique will be preferr’d, The public always takes my word; Nay, the loud plaudits heard around Must all your far-fetch’d thoughts confound: I truly wonder when I see You do not laugh as well as me.” SYNTAX.— “My muscles other ways are drawn: I cannot laugh, sir,—while I yawn.” CRITIC.— “But you will own the scenes are fine?” SYNTAX.—