Canto I

TO grace the elbow-chair of age,
ROSCIUS, the monarch of the stage;
(For ROSCIUS was in years, well stricken,
Besides that he began to thicken)
Resolv'd to lay the sceptre down,
And make his exit from the town.
To this intent, he summon'd strait,
The lords and commons of his state,
A motley tribe as you should see;
A theatre's variety;
From Madam YATES, to COLUMBINE:
He summon'd them, exact at nine,
Exact at nine, the parties came,
Some known to famine, some to fame.
In the same room (for once) they met;
The tragic ladies, took their seat:
The little folks, were on the scout
And fairly wish'd themselves without:
The gentlemen, stroll'd here and there
Till ROSCIUS came, and took the chair:
Then stood, in attitude profound,
And thus address'd the circle round.

"MY subjects and my friends, adieu:
I now am come, to part with you.
Full forty years, in various places,
Have I, alas, been making faces:
During which time—as you can tell,
Much have I talk'd of heaven, and hell;
Myself have stabb'd, through every part;
And often given away my heart;
Imaginary crimes committed,
Been hated, scorn'd, admir'd, and pitied:
My father strangled, kill'd my brother,
And play'd the devil with my mother;
To day a fool, to morrow wiser,
A monarch, manager, and miser.
Ten thousand times this hand, has press'd
In mimic agony, my breast;
I've died for love, and rose again,
On purpose to repeat my pain.
At once I've stabb'd both man and maid
And, now and then, a tyrant play'd.
Not Sir JOHN HILL, so much has wrote,
As I have spoken through my throat;
'Tis true indeed, we all rehearse
Each year, a waggon load of verse;
I, when the poet lost his gift,
Have kindly given the man a lift,
When poets, weighty matters cobble,
And their gall'd jades begin to hobble,
The player, doctors up their feet,
And makes them seem, both sound and fleet;
This have I done—with your assistance,
Tho' sometimes, we scarce sav'd our distance:
Bards, now a days, would lose the race,
If players, did not mend their pace,
So apt their hackneys are to trip,
That did we not work spur, and whip,
Scarce is there one among them all,
But would, ere course the second, fall:
To tell you then my serious wish,
I'm tir'd of this poetic dish,
So mean to bid farewel to verse,
And live upon my prose, and purse:
I'm on the edges of threescore,
'Tis really time to give it o'er;
I need not counterfeit a wrinkle!
Behold—it strikes you in a twinkle!
The step of sixty, as I stir
You see: 'tis downright angular I
I'm now unfit for rant and riot,
And so determine to be quiet;
No more will I the PROTEUS play,
But choose henceforth the private way:
Nay, Mr. KING, you need not stare,
I am in earnest now I swear;
As player, manager, and poet,
"I've done some service, and you know it:"
I've had my struggles, like the moor,
A time there was, when I was poor:
Now farewel hair-breadth 'scapes, and slavings,
Hail—three times hail—my little savings:
I never coveted such stuff,
But will retire, with just enough
To line the evening couch with down,
And keep a cottage out of town,
My homely Hampton hut, I mean,
Altho' a plain, a pleasant scene;
A palace ill befitteth age,
Mine, is the season to be sage;
And that's, another reason, why
I lay this bustling business by:
Altho' of actors, I am king
The hour, alas, is on the wing
When I, and real monarchs, must
Lay all our royalties in dust:
I now an awful part should act,
And fable, must give way to fact:
You see my purpose, and my plan;
No more the player, but the man.

THEN friends farewel, but ere I quit,
These well known scenes, of sense and wit;
These ever-honour'd, sacred boards,
Where such a levee grand, of lords,
Where kings and queens, so oft have stood,
And died—with little loss of blood;
Where conquerors of every clime,
Have, night by night, harangued in rhime;
Where, by the aid of good blank verse,
Stout heroes, have improved their curse:
Where dukes, of every sort and size,
Have complimented ladies eyes;
Where chiefs, have fought their country's cause,
And statesmen made, and unmade laws;
Where countesses, have drain'd the bowl,
Or stabb'd the form, to save the soul;
While virgins, rather than submit,
Their pretty, panting hearts have hit;
Where all of us, have had our blows,
Our sieges, battles, joys, and woes;
Ah friends—I cannot leave this place,
Till I have given my last embrace;
My eyes will linger to this spot,
Till you my last advice, have got.

FRIENDS, ours, is oft a dangerous trade,
Take then a recipe I've made,
I've tried its efficacy long,
Mind and apply it to the tongue:
The legs, and arms, must claim a part;
I've mixt it up, with wondrous art,
'Twill move the soul, and mend each feature;
I'm told, there's not the like in nature,
And as a mark, 'twill bear the test,
Me, it hath made—Probatum est.
Take first a well-siz'd LOOKING-GLASS,
"And view your shadow as you pass:"
Mark every motion of the eye,
And learn, at will, to laugh and cry,
Observe to step, and start, with grace,
And call up meaning, in the face:
Walk not too narrow, nor too wide,
'Tis like Sir Punch, to strut and stride:
As bad it is, to jerk, and run,
Pray ladies, copy ABINGTON.
Observe the breeding in her air,
There's nothing of the actress there:
Assume her fashion if you can;
And catch the graces of her fan.
Learn in the mirror, how to stare,
To smile in joy, to droop in care:
With ease, to hector-it, or sin-it,
And be the PROTEUS of the minute:
From gloomy, shift to the serene,
And learn to methodise your mien:
In drawing off a glove, I'll tell,
Whether a woman is bred well,
In tieing on a solitaire,
Or in the tender of a chair,
Or managing the limbs below,
I know whate'er a man can do.
I prithee never pause too long,
A trick I got, when I was young,
A trick, my enemies have told,
But habits, seldom leave the old.
The glass may teach, to bow and kneel,
But heaven alone can make you feel:
From that fair fount, the truth must flow,
Yet, art can make a shift you know;
I've found it frequently supply,
The want of sensibility.
But then, 'twill take up all your leisure,
Ere you can make such toil a pleasure;
For where dame Nature is unkind,
And scarcely half makes up the mind,
While Fortune, like a scurvy jade,
Tosses that mind, upon our trade,
It follows, as a clear effect,
That notwithstanding such neglect,
If Nature will not do her part,
The business must be done by art.
In stage-affairs, as in a watch,
There's many a wheel, and many a catch,
In both the mechanism's fine,
Your lookers-on, can ne'er divine,
What a mere juggle 'tis to play;
And yet this juggle does, I say.
Who only views the watch's face,
Conceive not what's within the case;
Enough for them, if truth it tell,
And bids SUE roast the mutton well,
The fine machinery they miss;
As 'tis in that, so 'tis in this.
I would not have you then despair,
Tho' Nature, should her blessings spare,
Tho' some of you, should feel no more,
Than DUNSTAN'S giants o'er church door:
Sheer art, may move a man about,
And who's to find the secret out:
Take heed, 'twill seem all skill and knowledge,
Might pose the fellow of a college.
Have you not seen, in LEAR, and FOOL,
(Where players often rave by rule)
The calling out—a mouse, a mouse,
Has fairly taken in, the house.
If well the changeling throws his hat,
Make sure of your applause for that:
One minute marks a start, at most,
But, if on entrance of a ghost,
You stamp but loud enough, and six,
Instead of one, you may take six:
'Twere well indeed, if, when it's come,
With dext'rous dash of hand, or thumb,
You caus'd the hair, to stand an end;
As that would much the horror mend:
When HAMLET's phantom you pursue,
Gaze, as if every lamp burnt blue:
But when its errand you would know,
Take care, to stagger as you go:
Then, as it waves you, not to vex it,
Let the sword tremble in your exit.
To make King RICHARD, there's a knack;
Be perfect, in the leg, and back;
The eyebrow, should be broad, and dark:
And give to murder, every mark
His fell complottings and designs,
Should startle in the face's lines;
Give him the dark assassin's airs
And catch the audience unawares.
Much, much, dear folks, depends on dress;
The seemly ruff of royal BESS,
The flourish, when she gives the blow,
The royal train, and furbelow,
The thundering boast, of blustering PIERRE,
The straw-made crown, of crazy LEAR,
OTHELLO's face, OPHELIA's willow,
And DESDRMONA's strangling pillow:
Your hose, ye fair, when boys you play,
White chins, when age is in decay,
Fat FALSTAFF's shield, and mountain belly,
Are half the battle, let me tell ye:
If once the galleries give the hand,
A fig, for those that understand,
The men of taste, you know, are rare,
The boxes, seldom heed the player:
Mind not the critic's hiss at flaws,
'Tis buried in the fool's applause.
Is genius wanting—trust to trick,
'Twill prove the actor's walking-stick:
There are, who use it every year:
Tho' none of my good people here.
But where true taste is given, escape,
That which will make you play the ape:
Where there is genius—in such cases,
The passions know their proper places;
Just where they ought, behold them rise,
Or flow in tears, or heave in sighs:
They animate the brightest jest,
And mighty nature stands confest:
What therefore, I remark'd, at first,
Was putting matters at the worst;
As providence bestow'd the power,
I ne'er could bear finesse an hour:
My ARCHER, is your comic sample,
And LEAR affords a grave example.
Of other points, there are a few,
That I will now reveal to you.
And first, it would not be amiss,
But here and there prevent a hiss,
If some of you would condescend
A certain careless air to mend;
'Tis villainous to search the pit,
To find where your admirers sit.
Nor is it right, to stare on high,
Intrigueing with the gallery:
Or to the boxes, give your eyes,
While on the stage a lady sighs:
Believe me, there is much to play,
Ev'n when you have no more to say:
Some, at the close of every speech,
Will, saucy, turn upon their breech;
Dear ladies, pray forgive the word,
But, faith, the custom's more absurd;
Never conclude your business past,
Till act the fifth, and line the last.
Oft have I been, the friend in danger,
When him I lov'd, stood, like a stranger;
And tho' next scene I was to die,
By draught, or dart, or sympathy:
(For broken hearts with us, are common
I've often crack'd a cord for woman)
The fellow, was so lost to feeling,
I might as well have hugg'd the ceiling;
One of his hands, indeed, was near
To take my tributary tear;
While other members, making love
Were set, to trap the nymphs above.
Sure gentlemen; you'll grant me this:
A time to act, a time to kiss;
Resrain but till the curtain's down,
Then Ranger-it, thro' all the town.

BUT really there is no excuse,
Where kissing, is so much in use.
The modern stage, is no way slack,
In granting you an honest smack:
I cannot recollect the play,
Where poets do not shew the way;
There's scarce a scene of tragic bliss,
But they have introduc'd a kiss,
Or if a comedy's their forte,
There's always something of that sort.
The drama now, however chaste,
In tender matters, near the waist;
Tho' they run round and round the riddle,
Girding a zone about the middle:
Yet all, who deal, in deaths and faintings,
Our dapsters at dramatic paintings,
However artfully, each draws
O'er sacred parts the virtuous gauze:
There's none so churlish, to dispute,
The players right to a salute:
In times of WYCHERLY indeed,
A Man, might modestly proceed,
Might leave the lips, and—in a pet
Said Y—G—"Pray sir, don't you forget?
I wish pure precepts, you'd convey,
And treat us—in a decent way:
When ladies in the room are sitting
Say is it sitting ROSCIUS"—Fitting!
As heaven shall judge me by its laws,
I only fight the female cause,
My argument will plainly prove,
You have a right to claim our love:
Whatever characters you play,
Or great, or little, grave, or gay,
While your dear forms are on the stage
You every motion should engage;
And he, who turns away his head—
The prompter—ought to strike him dead:
There's not a man in the creation,
Has for THE SEX such veneration.

IT now remains, ere I go hence,
To thank you, for your diligence.
Sickness, 'tis true, will oft disable:
Pretended sickness, is a fable;
The papers, have been full of this;
But I, blame nature for each miss;
At duty's call you all would come,
But—that you could not get from home:
Nay you'd have ventur'd in a chair,
Had you not fear'd—the evening air.
I know a lady's resolution,
But who can help her constitution.
And had you left your hoods and screens,
You might have died behind the scenes.
I credit not the idle tale
"She is not sick, she does not ail,"
I've seldom pry'd for your complaint,
Convinc'd, you were above a feint,
But sure, of your indisposition,
Have often sent you a physician.

SOME may have had it much at heart,
Because they did not like a part.
Some fair ones, have been apt to quarrel
And could not fancy their apparel:
It seems I've too much trimm'd a train,
When 'twould have prettier look'd, if plain:
I have not always pleas'd my beaux
In the division of the cloaths:
I have giv'n gold, for silver lace,
And sometimes sulted ill, a face:
Complexions differ, and stage dresses,
Should always match the skan and tresses:
But far from me the blame may pass,
The fault was in—the LOOKING-GLASS:
Ladies, indeed it told not truth,
Each habit much improv'd your youth;
And when you were displeas'd with me,
'Twas I adorn'd—a deity.

PERHAPS, a word may be expected,
Of Bards, who think themselves neglected.
It is no easy task, to rule
The scribbling tribe, and every sool,
Who pelts a man with manuscripts,
And crowds on him, mishapen slips;
Things, half begot, and born in pain,
The very Faetus of the brain.
Some of you know, my window-seat;
The piles of paper, there you meet,
Are but the bastards of the day,
From trash, that spawn a mushroom play:
Abortions, sprung from parents poor,
That lie—like foundlings—at my door:
In charity, I take them up,
Altho' not worth my caudle-cup:
The sire, without dramatic sap,
How can the son, be rear'd by pap?
Yet all, I keep a decent time,
In ragged swatheing-cloaths of rhime:
Then, beg the fathers to attend
And—take them to another friend.

I'M charg'd, with scorning babes of wit,
A charge, for which I've answer fit.

EXTRACT a moral, from a tale:
A Grazier, once had steers for sale;
Horses just broke, and heifers grown,
Pigs, calves, and other kine, his own.
To market, as he went one day,
A neighbour, stopp'd him on the way.
DOBSON, said he, as you know well,
Both how to buy, and how to sell,
As I, must watch to-day, the house,
(For mother midwife's with my spouse)
'Twill be a kindness, DOB. if you,
Will bargain for my oxen too:
None better knows when beasts are fat,
You are a judge—I must say that.
The Grazier, from pure love to JOHN,
Jog'd with the cattle, gently on.
A mile beyond, one THOMAS STAVER,
Beg'd, with a smile, an equal favour,
Talk'd of a lameness in his legs
And press'd upon him, all his eggs:
It was not DOB's denying day,
So, with his load, he trudg'd away.
But just as if 'twas ne'er to end,
Hard by, he saw a female friend:
She too, had met a bad disaster,
For which repose would prove a plaister:
How much, she said, would he oblige,
If he would take, her Friday's cheese?
The Grazier, though almost weigh'd down
Agreed, and toiling, went to town.
'Twas sultry noon when he got there
And now, came on, our Grazier's care.
Off went his horses, to his mind,
His heifers, did not stay behind:
His lambkins, bore a market price,
His hogs, found buyers, in a trice.
The market then was at a stand;
His neighbours' goods, remain in hand,
He scarcely sold an egg an hour,
And night, at last began, to lower:
Longer to stay, would be in vain,
And so he drove them back again.
The man with the rheumatic legs,
Who was the owner of the eggs,
The swain, who sent the oxen too,
Now on our luckless Grazier flew;
They tore his coat, they bruis'd his eye—
He was at last, compell'd to fly.
Yet, how was the poor man to blame,
He would have sold, if buyers came:
He could not force the beef, and cheese,
The Town was full of purchases;
The moral, is worth every other,
Serve first yourself, and then a brother;
To serve a brother first, is right,
Provided self gets double by't:
But mind that you get pleasure too,
That sanctifies whate'er you do:
Tis past dispute, and stands reveal'd
By men of note—see, CHESTERFIELD;
Authority we have no better,
It is the sense of every Letter.
For that it was, I sav'd my gold,
For that I bought, for that I sold.

My friends, I have no more to say,
I wish you long to live, and play:
And, when, like me, you've sav'd a pittance,
Make your last bows, and cry, acquittance."

THE GREEN-ROOM, echoed approbation,
And thus broke up the CONVOCATION.