New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;
Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?)
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet[1] may dance.
Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;
With every meteor of caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day.
Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice;
The stage but echoes back the public voice;
The drama's laws the drama's patrons give,
For we, that live to please, must please, to live.
Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;
'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence
Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense;
To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show,
For useful Mirth, and salutary Wo;
Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,
And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.
- ↑ Hunt, a famous boxer on the stage; Mahomet, a rope-dancer, who had exhibited at Covent-Garden Theatre the winter before, said to be a Turk.
R
