Loud thunder bursts in volleys, lightnings rage,

Shoots the blue ghastly gleam across the darken'd

stage.

And thou, Ö Addison, no more detain
The free-born Cato, struggling in his chain:
'Tis Liberty he loves, disclose thy vast design,
And let us see that every Muse is thine.

And now the Isis proudly rears her head,

See o'er her flowery lawns the Goddess tread, 260-
Thee, Heliconian Deity, I know,

Accept the verse thy streams have taught to flow.
But hark! she clains aloud the laurel wreath,
To bind the temples of her darling Smith,
Alas! to bind his temples !—he's no more,
But wanders silent on the Stygian shore;
Long since the promis'd Bard in all his pride,
In blooming beauty, like his Phaedra died.
O were the Youth, the Youth so long deplor'd,
Like his Hippolitus to life restor❜d,

Myriads of heroes should with him revive,
And in his labor'd lays triumphant live.
But hold! to sing such Poets' praise, requires
A genius great as Addison's or theirs.

Do thou, my Muse, describe the bright abodes.
Of wits, of cits, of critics, beaux, and bawds,
Of venal emperors, and earthling gods.
Low lies the tribe, commanded by the box,
That damn a play, or sign it orthodox,
The pit they fill, the pit where punks patrol, 2

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σσ

These look a luring leer, and those a gloomy scowl;
Footman and 'prentice bawl in upper air,
Bright in the middle sits enthron'd the fair.
But neither footman's ideot laugh can please,
Nor wounds the fiercer critic's envious hiss;]
Deign but, ye circles of the fair, to smile,
Well is the Poet paid for all his labor'd style.

=damni

Now turn, and see, where, loaden with her freight,
A damsel stands, and orange-wench is hight;
See! how her charge hangs dangling by the rim,_290
See! how the balls blush o'er the basket-brim;
But little those she minds, the cunning belle
Has other fish to fry, and other fruit to sell:
See! how she whispers yonder youthful peer;
See! how he smiles, and lends a greedy ear.
At length 'tis done, the note o'er orange wrapt
Has reach'd the box, and lies in lady's lap ;
Such Atalanta was, such golden fruit
Gain'd the fair murderess in the hot pursuit.
Poor pretty prostitute, thou kind relief
To longing Lady, and to Gallant's grief:
May that soft hand which both the boxes know,
Plump as thy orange in their service grow;
Still vend thy fruit, still give the billet right,
So may both colors in thy cheeks unite,
The fruit's vermillion, and the billet's white!

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But hark, a fight by some brisk spark indited, It is decreed the ladies must be frighted.

=

σ

310

I hear the soldiers and the clarions roar,
And see the battle enters at the door,
Some two distinguish'd chiefs decide the cause,
Who like true heroes bleed to gain applause.
Porters in red with brandish'd whinyard vie,
Fight as good friends, and for their living die;
Here some the sabre's blunted terrors wield,
There javelins splinter on the sun-bright shield,
Their foils clash horrible, their faulchions jar,
A harmless hubbub, and a pointless war;
Each chief submits to what his roll decrees,
Or conquers bravely, or as bravely dies. 320
Meanwhile with throats expansive, visage glum,
Legions of stentors trumpet, shout, and drum,
Sound an alarm, retreat, rout, rally, overcome.

So have I seen, when custard was the prize,
Whole troops of trencher-men and trainbands rise,
Like more than men with formidable pride,
Charge to the promis'd dinner up Cheapside,
Present their pieces, pop, huzza around,

And shake themselves, and shake the smoaking
ground.

-330

Say, whence their armor, whence the cask enchas'd
With beamy gems, the cuirass richly lac'd,
The waving plumage, and the burnish'd crest?
Say, whence the coat of mail, the temper'd spear?
Say, whence the hero's helm, the king's tiar,
And whence in gory robes assassin'd spectres glare ?

High o'er the stage there lies a rambling frame, Which men a garret, players the tire-room name; Here all their stores (a merry medley) sleep, Without distinction huddled in a heap.

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= cops.

Hung on the self-same peg, in union rest
Young Tarquin's trowsers and Lucretia's vest,
Whilst, without pulling coifs, Roxana lays
Close by Statira's petticoat her stays.
Hard-by a quart of bottled lightning lies,
A bowl of double use, and monstrous size;
Now rolls it high, and rumbles in its speed,
Now drowns the weaker crack of mustard-seed.
So the true thunder, all array'd in smoak,
Lanch'd from the skies now rives the knotted oak,
And sometimes, nought the drunkard's prayers avail, 350
Ah! sometimes condescends to sour ale.

Near these sets up a dragon-drawn calash,
There a ghost's doublet gapes a frightful gash.
In crimson wrought the sanguine floods abound,
And seem to gutter from the streaming wound.
Here Iris bends her various-painted arch,
There pasteboard clouds in sullen order march ;
Here stands a crown upon a rack, and there
A witch's broomstick by great Hector's spear;
Here stands a throne, and there the Cynic's tub,
Here Bullock's cudgel, there Alcides' club.
Beads, plumes, and spangles, in confusion rise,

Whilst rocks of Cornish diamonds reach the skies.

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Crests, corselets, all the pomp of battle join,
In one effulgence, one promiscuous shine.

Hence all the Drama's decorations rise, Hence Gods descend majestic from the skies, Hence Playhouse Chiefs, to grace some antique tale, Buckle their coward limbs in warlike mail. With what an air, from this their magazine 3, Equipp'd, old Betterton adorn'd the scene! Old Betterton, on whose seraphic tongue Mirth, majesty, and fluent satire hung; He, by Religion a Tragedian made,

Play'd virtuous parts, and liv'd the parts he play'd.
He florish'd long; and long deliberate Fate
Spar'd him, in pity to the Tragic State.
At length he fell; decay'd the Stage's pride,
The Laureat sicken'd, and the Scribbler died;
For if the first a piece consummate drew,

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From him each graceful stroke receiv'd its due;
Nor could the last so bad a scene indite,

But his judicious action set it right;

Still, at the worst or best of plays, the town
With pleasure listen'd to their Betterton.

So in the senate, be it to declare

A well-concerted peace, or dreadful war,
The same delight, the same applause, is shown
By Anna's peers, when Anna mounts the throne.