The Rustic at the Play

Our youth is like a rustic at the play
That cries aloud in simple-hearted fear,
Curses the villain, shudders at the fray,
And weeps before the maiden's wreathed bier.
Yet once familiar with the changing show,
He starts no longer at a brandished knife;
But, his heart chasten'd at the sight of woe,
Ponders the mirror'd sorrows of his life.

So tutor'd too, I watch the moving art
Of all this magic and impassion'd pain
That tells the story of the human heart
In a false instance, such as poets feign.
I smile, and keep within the parchment furl'd
That prompts the passions of this strutting world.