“Dear Madam—Disappointed by a friend—
“Promis’d a Prologue—at my poor wit’s end—
“Ruin’d—unless so good—your laughing way—
“T’ insinuate something for my luckless Play.”
Poor Devil! what a fright he’s in—but why—
Am I to help him—What can I supply?
I’m doom’d to speak but just what Authors say:
Dull, when they’re dull—and sportive when they’re gay;
Mere puppets here, obedient to their will,
We love or hate—are blest or wretched—kill’d or kill—
Mirth we put on, just as we put on graces—
And wit—that’s sent home ready with our dresses.
What, tho’ at night so very smart and charming—
The dullest mortals breathing, in the morning—
Hence the nice sop, ’ere he our merit stamps.
Of rouge all doubtful—and these treach’rous lamps,
Midst the loud praise, still asks with cautious leer
How is she off the stage—what is she near——
But to my talk—to own it tho’ you’re loath
You’re all spoilt children of a larger growth,
Longing for each poor tinsel’d toy you see,
And only constant to variety——
Whilst each, the censor of his own defects,
The darling fault with gentlest hand corrects;
E’en from his very failings draws a merit,
And dooms each error but a proof of spirit.
[4]Look round the world——
When we say world—we mean not now-a days
A huge globe, form’d of mountains—rivers—seas—
The polish’d mind sinks from a scene so wide,
We mean from Hyde Park Corner to Cheapside——
Look thro’ the world—you’ll find my moral true
In all the varied shapes th
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