PERFORMED AT COVENT-GARDEN, IN 1799.

T O please the town is not a task severe,
Wit will command a smile, distress a tear!
And he whose moral picture plainly shews.
The tree of vice can bear no fruit but woes;
That, though successful long in fashion's reign,
The villain's wages are disgrace and pain!
But that the good, by bounty wisely giv'n,
Can make this vale of tears resemble Heav'n;
With new-born comfort hush the widow's sigh,
And wipe the tear from pallid mis'ry's eye.
The bard, who thus employs his useful pen,
Imprints his drama on the hearts of men,
Commands respect from age, applause from youth,
And makes the stage assist the cause of truth.
Yet has the Author many an anxious fear,
As his probationary night draws near:
When to his friends the manuscript is read,
Each social critic nods the approving head;
Most yield him flatt'ry, some with jaundic'd eye,
Glance at a fault, and at a beauty sigh;
But these are few, true genius still delights
To gaze with rapture at the muse's flights,
And scorns to triumph o'er a brother's fall,
When fame's wide dome is large enough for all!
Though none shall mount where Shakspeare sits sublime,
The drama's monarch to the end of time!
Within that fane they each a wreath may wear,
Which Nature's darling offspring hallow'd there;
And, seated at the base of Shakspeare's throne,
Feel some small portion of his fire their own!
Thus, if they knew their interest, wits would be,
By friendship, bound in one great family;
And, if deserving, all might reap the bays
From the rich harvest of the public praise.