An Epistle to Mr. Garrick, on the Report of His Having Left the Stage

So! Mr. Garrick! is it true,
As folks report, the stage and you
Took a French leave, at parting?
We hop'd th' Italian air and diet
Had quite restor'd your health and quiet,
And made you keen for starting.

In vain we listen'd to the tales
Brought over by the foreign mails,
That you were home returning;
To see your name in capitals,
Stuck up on tavern-posts, and walls.
With fond impatience burning!

Your wish'd arrival vain to boast,
If, never enter'd at the post,
You shun the race of glory!
As well you might have travell'd on,
From Pope to Turk, to Prester John:
The world was all before ye.

For to be plain Sir, entre nous,
'Twas not about your wife or you
We all were so solicitous:
You might as well be there as here,
If, as king Richard, Bayes, or Lear,
You mean no more to visit us.

Your friends, if friends they are, indeed,
Your spirit or your spleen may plead,
From acting to excuse ye;
But, spite of what your friends declare
We, your admirers, cannot bear
To get you thus to lose ye.

'Tis true, they make a mighty stir
About you, as a manager,
Intent on reformation;
Busy instructing, in their parts,
In clap-trap attitudes and starts,
The rising generation.

But ah! in vain removed from sight
The candles, to improve the light,
Tho' pleas'd the pit immensely!
If all your pupils need the rod
As much as fiddle-faddle—,
Or blustering, bouncing—.

To those, who ne'er have Garrick seen,
Such acting may not give the spleen:
To me, it is the devil,
To sit three hours, my noddle bare,
To see your—rant and tear,
And hear that—snivel!

I, often as I come to town,
In order to spare you a crown,
Dine gratis, with my printer;
But, damn it, if I'm doom'd to see
Such mummers play, instead of thee,
I'll come no more this winter.