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Fond of his dress, fond of his perfon grown,
Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown,
From fide to fide he ftruts, he fmiles, he prates,
And feems to wonder what's become of Yates.
Woodward, endu'd with various tricks of face,
Great master in the fcience of grimace,
From Ireland ventures, fav'rite of the town,
Lur'd by the pleafing profpect of renown;
A fpeaking Harlequin, made up of whim,
He twists, he twines, he tortures ev'ry limb;
Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art,
And leaves to fenfe the conqueft of the heart.
We laugh, indeed; but, on reflection's birth,
We wonder at ourselves, and curfe our mirth.
His walk of parts he fatally misplac'd,
And inclination fondly took for taste;

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Hence hath the town fo often feen display'd,

Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.

But when bold wits, not fuch as patch up plays

Cold and correct, in thefe infipid days,

Some comick character, ftrong featur'd, urge

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To probability's extremeft verge,

Where modeft judgment her decree fufpends,
And for a time nor cenfures nor commends;
Where criticks can't determine on the spot,
Whether it is in nature found or not;
There Woodward fafely fhall his pow'rs exert,
Nor fail of favour where he fhews defert;
Hence he in Bobadil fuch praises bore,
Such worthy praifes, Kitely fcarce had more.

By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes,
Conftant to none, Foote laughs, cries, ftruts, and fcrapes:-
Now in the centre, now in van or rear,
The Proteus fhifts, bawd, parfon, auctioneer.

His ftrokes of humour, and his bursts of fport,
Are all contain'd in this one word, DISTORT.

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Doth

Doth a man stutter, look afquint, or halt,
Mimicks draw humour out of Nature's fault;
With perfonal defects their mirth adorn,
And hang misfortunes out to publick scorn.
E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould,
Whom having made, fhe trembled to behold,
Beneath the load of mimickry may groan,

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And find that Nature's errors are my own.

Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came,

Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name.

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Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,
That even shadows have their fhadows too!
With not a fingle comick pow'r endu❜d,
The first a mere mere mimick's mimick stood;
The last, by Nature form'd to please, who shows,
In Johnson's Stephen, which way genius grows,
Self quite put off, affects with too much art

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To put on Woodward in each mangled part;

Adopts his fhrug, his wink, his ftare; nay, more,

His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before.

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When, to enforce fome very tender part,
The right-hand fleeps by instinct on the heart,
His foul, of ev'ry other thought bereft,
Is anxious only where to place the left :
He fobs and pants, to foothe his weeping spouse;
To foothe his weeping mother, turns and bows :

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Auk

Aukward, embarrafs'd, ftiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully, or ftanding still;
One leg, as if fufpicious of his brother,
Defirous feems to run away from t'other.

;

Some errors, handed down from age to age,
Plead cuftom's force, and ftill poffefs the ftage..
That's vile-Should we a parent's faults adore
And err, because our fathers err'd before!
If, inattentive to the author's mind,
Some actors made the jeft they could not find ;
If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien,
And blurr'd the graces of the fimple scene;
Shall we, if reafon rightly is employ'd,
Not fee their faults; or, feeing, not avoid?

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When Falstaff stands detected in a lye,

Why, without meaning, rolls Love's glaffy eye?

Why there's no cause at least, no cause we know→→→

It was the fashion twenty years ago.

Fashion! a word which knaves and fools may use,

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Their knavery and folly to excufe.

To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence

To fame; to copy faults, is want of sense.
Yet (tho' in fome particulars he fails,
Some few particulars, where mode prevails)
If in these hallow'd times, when sober, sad,
All gentlemen are melancholy mad;

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When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime, by half,

To violate a vestal, as to laugh;

Rude mirth may hope prefumpt'ous to engage

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An act of toleration for the stage;

And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures,

Sufpend vain fashion, and unscrew their features;

Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, fhall please once more,
And humour fet the audience in a roar.

Actors I've feen, and of no vulgar name,

Who being from one part poffefs'd of fame,

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Whether

Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl,
Still introduce that fav'rite part in all.

Here, Love, be cautious-ne'er be thou betray'd
To call in that wag Falftaff's dang❜rous aid;
Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend,
He'll seize that throne you with him to defend.
In a peculiar mould by humour caft,

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For Falftaff fram'd-himself the first and last-
He stands aloof from all-maintains his state,
And scorns, like Scotfmen, to assimilate.
Vain all disguise-too plain we see the trick,

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Tho' the knight wears the weeds of Dominick ;

And Boniface, disgrac'd, betrays the smack,

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IN ANNO DOMINE, of Falstaff's fack.

Arms crofs'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching flow,
A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow;

Wrapt in conceit's impenetrable fog,

Which pride, like Phoebus, draws from ev'ry bog,

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They curse the managers, and curfe the town,

Whose partial favour keeps fuch merit down.

But if fome man, more hardy than the reft,

Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest,
At once they rife with impotence of rage,

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Whet their small ftings, and buzz about the stage.

• "Tis breach of privilege!-Shall any dare

• To arm fatirick truth against a play'r?

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Prescriptive rights we plead, time out of mind;

• Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind.' What! fhall Opinion, then, of Nature free,

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And lib'ral as the vagrant air, agree

To ruft in chains like these, impos'd by things

Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings?

No-tho' half poets with half players join,

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To curfe the freedom of each honest line ;

Tho'

rage and malice dim their faded cheek, What the Muse freely thinks, fhe'll freely speak;

With just difdain of ev'ry paltry fneer,
Stranger alike to flattery and fear,

In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule,
Publick contempt shall wait the publick fool."

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Austin would always gliften in French filks; Ackman would Norris be-and Packer, Wilks; For who, like Ackman, can with humour please? Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease ¿ Higher than all the reft, fee Branby ftrut,

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A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput!

A man fo very high, fo very low."

Ludicrous Nature! which at once could fhow

If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I fay

Let criticks, with a fupercilious air,

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Aught hurtful, may I never fee thee play!

Decry thy various merit, and declare

Frenchman is ftill at top-but fcorn that rage,

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Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age.

French follies, univerfally embrac'd,

At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.
Long from a nation ever hardly us’d, ̈ ́

At random cenfur'd, wantonly abus'd,

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Have Britons drawn their fport; with partial view
Form'd gen'ral notions from the rascal few;
Condemn'd a people, as for vices known,

Which, from their country banish'd, feek our own.
At length, howe'er, the flavish chain is broke,
And Senfe, awaken'd, fcorns her ancient yoke:
Taught by thee, Moody, we now learn to raise
Mirth from their foibles, from their virtues praise.
Next came the legion which our fummer Bayes

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From alleys here and there contriv❜d to raise,

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Flush'd with vaft hopes, and certain to fucceed,

With wits who cannot write, and fearce can read.

Vet'rans no more fupport the rotten cause,

No more from Elliot's worth they reap applause;

Each

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