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The ART of
B. IV.
There is a Charm: a Power that sways the breast;
Bids every Passion revel or be still;
Inspires with Rage, or all your Cares dissolves;
Can sooth Distraction, and almost Despair.
485That Power is Music: Far beyond the stretch
Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;
Those clumsy Heroes, those fat-headed Gods,
Who move no Passion justly but Contempt:
Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)
490Do wond'rous feats, but never heard of grace.
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts,
Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest peals,
Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;
And, with insipid shew of rapture, die
495Of ideot notes, impertinently long.
But
