To Physic now--that claims the second place. SCHOMBERG has Skill, but PRINGLE has the Grace; And yet--but how I know not--I protest, THAT Schomberg's universally carest; Hated perhaps--for taking NATURE'S part-- By none, but the Professors of the ART. Tho' BROMFIELD operates as quick as thought, His Fame and Judgment would be set at nought Did not the sweetness of his soft Address, That graceful mode he carves with, more or less, Conduce to save his happy patient's life, And make him look with pleasure at his knife. Thus with Divines. The multitude caress The Preacher of the most expert Address. 'Tis not the doctrine that the crowd revere, They go to please the eye, and not the ear; Hundreds, in spite of those who truly teach, To ----[3] flock, tho' PETERBOROUGH preach. Think you (and this to CHATHAM I submit) That parts superior rais'd the name of PITT! No--'twas that elegant, HANS STANLEY Ease, That manner soft, which could not fail to please; That magic something, which yet wants a name, And hands GREAT TALLBOY to immortal fame. Say! was it parts (tho' WALPOLE ne'er had more) That held up NORTH amidst a factious roar! With cautious eye the steady helm he guides, And o'er the sea of state triumphant rides. Firm, as the solid rock, that nobly braves The raving fury of the lashing waves, He stands--and mocks, un-conscious of a shame, The voice of Clamour, and the lies of Fame. But did th' exertion of his parts alone Give, or deserve the favour of the throne! Tho' blest with Goodness both of Heart and Head, That goodness had remain'd inert and dead, His well-earn'd consequence would ne'er maintain, Were he not HASLANG'D in the Graces train. But now to more familiar rules I fall, And beg you'll practise and observe 'em all. When at the Play, be all alike serene, Or at the tragic, or the comic scene. Let Humour (GARRICK standing by her side) With laughter loud plebeian mouths divide, Whose ha! ha! ha's! the tender ear annoy. Do thou disdain the coarse, unmeaning joy;[4] Nor ope your lips, but purely to disclose How white your teeth, how accurate the rows. When Tragedy puts on her sable stole, Whose very looks convey her very soul; Whose words a murderer's repose defeat, And make a _Nabob_ shudder in his seat; Whose plaintive tones can melt the worthy breast, That ever melts, when Merit is distrest; Who calls forth tears, of tears a copious store From sullen eyes, that never wept before; Tears that do honour to the human heart, And such as BARRY can at will impart; When such the sympathy (tho' ne'er so strong) Ah! catch not thou th' effusion of the throng; For if they see you shed one real tear, The very men who shift the scenes will sneer.