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Why lov'd he Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius muft our wonder raise,
But gives his mimick no reflected praise.

Thrice happy genius, whose unrivall❜d name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead, with more than magick skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear fpontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of sympathetick woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chillness creep,
When horrors fuch as thine have murder'd fleep;
And at the old man's look and frantick ftare,
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I fee him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragick walks alone,
The comick Mufe, too, claims thee for her own,
With each delightful requifite to please,
Taste, spirit, judgment, elegance, and ease,
Familiar Nature forms thy only rule,

From Ranger's rake, to Drugger's vacant fool.
With powers fo pliant, and fo various blefs'd,
That what we see the laft, we like the best.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burst outrageous with the laugh of fenfe.
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The play'r's profeffion (tho' I hate the phrase,
'Tis fo mechanick in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start;
Nature's true knowledge is the only art.
The ftrong-felt paffion bolts into his face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace?
To this one standard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden fecret-learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distress'd,
No actor pleases, that is not poffefs' d.
Z

Once

Once on the ftage, in Rome's declining days,
When Christians were the subject of their plays,
Ere Perfecution dropp'd her iron rod,

And men ftill wag'd an impious war with God,
An Actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's difciple, and Geneft his name.
A noble object for his fkill he chofe,
A martyr dying 'midst infulting foes.
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's caufe.
Fill'd with th' idea of the facred part,

He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art;
While look, and voice, and gefture, all express'd
A kindred ardour in the player's breast:
Till as the flame thro' all his bofom ran,
He loft the Actor, and commenc'd the Man;
Profefs'd the faith, his Pagan gods deny'd,
And what he acted then, he after dy’d.
The player's province they but vainly try,
Who want these pow'rs-deportment, voice, and eye.
The critick fight 'tis only grace can please,

No figure charms us if it has not ease.
There are, who think the ftature all in all,
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling sense all other want fupplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his fize.
Superior height requires fuperior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?
Theatrick monarchs, in their tragick gait,
Affect to mark the folemn pace of state.
One foot put forward in position strong,
The other, like it's vaffal, dragg'd along.
So grave each motion, fo exact and flow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill fupplies it's place.

Unskilful

apes,

Unfkilful actors, like your mimick
Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes;
However foreign from the poet's art,

No tragick hero but admires a start.
What though unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his attitude is fine?

While a whole minute equipois'd he stands,
Till Praise difmifs him with her echoing hands!
Refolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pause,
By perfeverance to extort applaufe.

When Romeo, forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness bursts the canvas tomb,
The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff,
Which please the vulgar, make the critick laugh.

To paint the paffion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action Nature's felf will tell:
No pleasing pow'rs diftortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loathes excess.
In fock or bufkin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Difgufts our reason, and the taste confounds.
Of all the evils which the ftage moleft,
I hate your fool who over-acts his jeft ;
Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With fhrug, and grin, and gefture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face,
Old Johnson once, tho' Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train,
With steady face, and fober, hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ftrong out-lines of the comick scene.
What was writ down, with decent utt'rance fpoke,
Betray'd no fymptom of the conscious joke ;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho' upon the stage, appear'd no play'r.
The word and action fhould conjointly fuit,
But acting words is labour too minute.

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Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong, While fober humour marks th' impreffion strong. Her proper traits the fix'd attention hit,

And bring me clofer to the poet's wit;

.

With her delighted o'er each fcene I go,
Well pleas'd, and not asham'd of being so.
But let the gen'rous actor still forbear
To copy features with a mimick's care!
'Tis a poor skill, which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile ftage-cuftom, bonour'd in the breach.
Worfe as more clofe, the difingenuous art
But fhews the wanton looseness of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the publick scene,
Forfaking Nature's fair and open road,

To mark fome whim, some strange peculiar mode;
Fir'd with difguft, I loathe his fervile plan,
Defpife the mimick, and abhor the man,
Go to the lame, to hofpitals repair,

And hunt for humour in diftortions there!
Fill up the meafure of the motley whim,
With fhrug, wink, fnufile, and convulfive limb;
Then fhame, at once, to please a trifling age,
Good fenfe, good-manners, virtue, and the stage!
'Tis not enough the voice be found and clear,
'Tis modulation that muit charm the ear.
When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their forrows in a fee-faw tone,
The fame foft founds of unimpaflion'd woes,
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.

The voice all modes of paffion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper stress:
But none emphatick can that actor call,

Who lays an equal emphafis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll, Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll;

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Point ev'ry ftop, mark ev'ry pause so strong,
Their words, like ftage proceffions, ftalk along:
All affectation but creates difguft,

And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.

Nor proper, Thornton, can those founds appear
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear:
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to profe;
Repeating what the poet fets not down;
The verb disjointing from it's friendly noun;
While paufe, and break, and repetition, join
To make a difcord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene
With lifeless drone, infipid and ferene ;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,

And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft, and finer strokes, are shown

In the low whisper, than tempeftuous tone:
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fix'd amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he who, fwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the ftage.

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He, who in earnest studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A fingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd, Oh!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts it's meaning from the fpeaking eyes;
Love, transport, madnefs, anger, fcorn, defpair,
And all the paffions, all the foul is there.

In vain Ophelia gives her flow'rets round,
And with her ftraws fantastick ftrews the ground;
In vain now fings, now heaves the defp'rate figh,
If phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.

In

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