Mindful of Forbes, and of thy own Argyle? Where rhyme is wanting, but where fancy shines, Whose Roman freedom has Roscommon's voice. EPISTLE VIII. THE STAGE. то JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ. FROM MR. WEBSTER, OF CHRIST-CHURCH, OXFORD. SINCE all the din of war begins to cease, Where Mars still rages in the Poet's lines, Where the shrill trumpet's clangor charms the ear, Love shoots the guilty darts from their too murderous eyes. Epist. VIII. EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c. 87 Nigh where, as when on Naseby's fatal plains, A convent once (if we may credit Fame, At length the world broke-in, and now the Player Attracts the Beau, the Critic, and the Fair; Ev'n in the place which once the Monk possess'd (Strange shift of scenes!) fat Dominic's the jest. Sweet is the florish when the curtain draws, Sweet is the crowded theatre's applause Sweet are the strains when billing Lovers parle, But rough the cat-call and the Critic's snarl. Rough was the language, unadorned the stage, And mean his hero's dress in Shakspere's age: No scepter'd Kings in royal robes were seen, Scarce could her guard defend their tinsel'd Queen, Scarce could the house contain the listening shoal, Scarce had the mimic thunder room to roll; But then wives, subjects, friends, 'tis sung, were true, Here wreath'd Apollo with his heavenly lyre Inflames the Muses with poetic fire, Their tuneful strains the jocund Muses sing, And tributary Bards their incense bring; The God, with pleasing looks and crowns of bays, Smiles on their labors, and rewards their lays. Here have I seen (and oh the pleasing sight!) Love, Hate, and Fury, in their truest light; Here, when his crimes in public glar'd, I've seen The blushing letcher curse the babbling scene, Whilst he whom conscious Innocence secures, Unless when Virtue wrongs or scorn endures, Smiles unconcern'd, as Socrates is said T' have sat at Athens when the Clouds were play'd. His judgment great, and great must be his craft, That undertakes to make his audience laugh; 'Tis not a natural ninny must be shown, Expose the coxcomb, not the simpleton. The barbarous wretch, that toils to ridicule An honest, harmless, unconceited fool, As well, with Hamlet in the play, might slave To prove a villain is an errant knave. When Shadwell gives his ideot clown a miss, Gorg'd with the nauseous ass, true critics hiss, Hiss, and with reason bid the scribbling nisy, Go read Quintilian de movendo risu. Nothing can more provoke a righteous spleen Religion is for plays too great a theme, |