Classic Poem

Spoken by Mr. Cibber, Junior, 1729

If language could our grateful thoughts express,
Those thoughts should want not for poetic dress;
But words, Alas! are far too poor to show
The thanks we to your kind indulgence owe,
Who've merit made of our desire to please,
Wink'd at our faults, and rais'd us by degrees;
Encouragement, the very life of art,
Stirs up the active mind, and fires the heart,
From small beginnings makes th'industrious mend,
And struggle, till perfection crowns the end.
Accept our humble thanks for favours past,
And give us hopes to think 'em not the last:
In pity pardon what has been amiss,
Another year may mend the faults of this;
And if hereafter we deserve applause,
Be yours the praise, whose goodness was the cause.