РОЕТ. Oh, tell me not of the tumultuous crowd, And silent vale some scene in fairy-land, There only will the poet's heart expand, Lost in delicious visions of its own, Where Love and Friendship o'er the heart at rest Watch through the flowing hours, and we are blest! Thoughts by the soul conceived in silent joy, Sounds often muttered by the timid voice, Tried by the nice ear, delicate of choice, Till we at last are pleased, or self-deceived, The whole a rabble's madness may destroy; And this, when, after toil of many years, Touched and retouched, the perfect piece appears, To challenge praise, or win unconscious tears, As the vain heart too easily believed; Some sparkling, showy thing, got up in haste, Brilliant and light, will catch the passing taste. The truly great, the genuine, the sublime Wins its slow way in silence; and the bard, Unnoticed long, receives from after-time The imperishable wreath, his best, his sole reward! MR. MERRYMAN. Enough of this cold cant of future ages, And men hereafter doting on your pages; To prattle thus of other times is pleasant, And all the while neglect our own, the PRESENT. If on the unborn we squander our exertion, Who will supply the living with diversion? And, clamour as you authors may about it, We want amusement, will not go without it; A fashionable group is no small matter, Methinks, a poet's vanity to flatter: He who, profusely lavishing invention, Pleases himself, need feel no apprehension; The crowd soon share the feelings of the poet, The praise he seeks they liberally bestow it: The more that come, the better for the writer; Each flash of wit is farther felt And every little point appreciated, By some one in the circle over-rated, All is above its value estimated : seems brighter, Take courage then, come now for a chefd'œuvre To make a name to live, and live for ever. Call FANCY up, with her attendant troop, REASON and JUDGMENT, PASSION, MELANCHOLY, WIT, FEELING, and be sure among the group Not to forget the little darling, FOLLY! MANAGER. But above all, give them enough of action; sure; for it; Then each finds something in 't to yield him plea sure; The more you give, the greater sure your chance is Such a ragoût is soon prepared, nor shall it РОЕТ. You cannot think how very mean a task, The poor pretender's bungling tricks, I find, MANAGER. Such an objection is of little weight Your play may-for your audience—be too good;- And every auditor an ardent cheerer? Of the Muse coy I tell thee only, give enough enough; Still more and more no matter of what stuff, You cannot go astray; let all your views To keep them in amazement or distraction; Why, what affects you thus is 't inspiration? A reverie? oh! can it be vexation ? POET. Go, and elsewhere some fitter servant find; |