On Reading Thespis, a Satire on the Comedians of Drury-Lane Theatre

When feeble folly flings the random dart,
E'en let it fly.—Who feels or heeds the smart?
But when rash genius, or eccentric wit,
Take wanton aim some destin'd mark to hit,
How needful is't that judgment guide aright,
And that the very feather bear no spite!
Else while the point, replete with venom, flies,
Declining worth and rising merit dies.—
So heaven forgive, and hell afford a rope
For him who wounded Pritchard, Clive and Pope.
So wild a head, with so deprav'd a heart,
To heaven should never mount but from a cart:
That stage first Thespis trod, in ages past,
And had he justice, that would be his last.