Friends have such sov'reign pow'r to task the heart,
We must obey 'em, tho' we want the art!
Hence, has it fall'n, this evening, to my share ,
To read a play-house lecture, tho' no player .
Think me not, thence, less fit . — Their business, here ,
Is but plain nature — hers, the smile , and tear!
From truth , not time , the actor takes his fame ,
And length of practice gives but bastard claim;
Else, would the oldest mistress be the toast ,
And wives , who plagu'd you, longest , please you most .
To act , is then, to imitate , 'tis true;
But take that truth , with a distinction , too;
Wou'd but each actor , imitating well ,
Learn, from himself , another to excel:
Search his own bosom; copy, from within ,
Seize your attention , and your passions win;
Then , would the stage, of no neglect , complain,
But love , and grief , and pity , charm, again.
Yet, were there play'rs , like me , who, void of art ,
Felt not the anguish, that inspires their part,
What ill-judg'd rantings would untune distress!
With weak varieties , of wild excess!
Among such play'rs, methinks, e'en I could shine;
Strike out new walks , and charm, with new design .
Now , in big sounds , I'd bowl away, to fame ,
And nod , and sink , and lumber , into name .
From side, to side, next , with enormous swing ,
I'd heave on majesty, and puff the king.
Two foot, too short , that single fault I'd feel ,
And eke my length out, with a yard of heel .
For solemn utt'rance , has applause been due?
I'd have that art, to force applauses , too.
With slow-rais'd foot , keep time , to my own drawl ,
'Till sleep's befriending influence hushes all .
Such actors have been seen! — but wou'd your taste
Distinguish , nor submit to praise, in haste ;
Well mortify'd, while censur'd into fame ,
Thought would instruct 'em, how to 'scape your blame .
Nature would mark the look , adapt the mien ,
And passions , rightly painted, grace the scene.
Scorn , at presumptuous ignorance , would rise,
And shoot reproachful, from averted eyes .
Sorrow , in mournful accents , humbly flow,
And melt the stubborn heart, in weeping woe.
Wonder , the starting eye-brows, upward , draw,
And, on the posture , stamp a speechless awe .
Joy , to the features , would restore their grace ,
And light up all the lustre of the face .
Anger would gnash the teeth , the nostrils strain,
Swell, in each muscle , boil, in ev'ry vein ;
With restless motion, agitate the frame,
Burst out, like thunder ; and like light'ning , flame.
Thus, I conceive , but want the pow'r, to show ,
What actors should , to art, and nature, owe;
Such, when you find — 'tis THIERS , the scene to raise ,
'Tis YOURS , to mark their worth , and fix their praise .
We must obey 'em, tho' we want the art!
Hence, has it fall'n, this evening, to my share ,
To read a play-house lecture, tho' no player .
Think me not, thence, less fit . — Their business, here ,
Is but plain nature — hers, the smile , and tear!
From truth , not time , the actor takes his fame ,
And length of practice gives but bastard claim;
Else, would the oldest mistress be the toast ,
And wives , who plagu'd you, longest , please you most .
To act , is then, to imitate , 'tis true;
But take that truth , with a distinction , too;
Wou'd but each actor , imitating well ,
Learn, from himself , another to excel:
Search his own bosom; copy, from within ,
Seize your attention , and your passions win;
Then , would the stage, of no neglect , complain,
But love , and grief , and pity , charm, again.
Yet, were there play'rs , like me , who, void of art ,
Felt not the anguish, that inspires their part,
What ill-judg'd rantings would untune distress!
With weak varieties , of wild excess!
Among such play'rs, methinks, e'en I could shine;
Strike out new walks , and charm, with new design .
Now , in big sounds , I'd bowl away, to fame ,
And nod , and sink , and lumber , into name .
From side, to side, next , with enormous swing ,
I'd heave on majesty, and puff the king.
Two foot, too short , that single fault I'd feel ,
And eke my length out, with a yard of heel .
For solemn utt'rance , has applause been due?
I'd have that art, to force applauses , too.
With slow-rais'd foot , keep time , to my own drawl ,
'Till sleep's befriending influence hushes all .
Such actors have been seen! — but wou'd your taste
Distinguish , nor submit to praise, in haste ;
Well mortify'd, while censur'd into fame ,
Thought would instruct 'em, how to 'scape your blame .
Nature would mark the look , adapt the mien ,
And passions , rightly painted, grace the scene.
Scorn , at presumptuous ignorance , would rise,
And shoot reproachful, from averted eyes .
Sorrow , in mournful accents , humbly flow,
And melt the stubborn heart, in weeping woe.
Wonder , the starting eye-brows, upward , draw,
And, on the posture , stamp a speechless awe .
Joy , to the features , would restore their grace ,
And light up all the lustre of the face .
Anger would gnash the teeth , the nostrils strain,
Swell, in each muscle , boil, in ev'ry vein ;
With restless motion, agitate the frame,
Burst out, like thunder ; and like light'ning , flame.
Thus, I conceive , but want the pow'r, to show ,
What actors should , to art, and nature, owe;
Such, when you find — 'tis THIERS , the scene to raise ,
'Tis YOURS , to mark their worth , and fix their praise .