THAT various revolutions in our art,
Since Thefpis first fung ballads in a cart!
By nature fram'd the witty war to wage,
And lay the deep foundations of the stage,
From his own foil that bard his pictures drew :
The gaping crowd the mimic features knew,
And the broad jest with fire electric flew.
Succeeding times, more polish'd and refin'd,
Tho' rigid rules the comic mufe confin'd:
Robb'd of the nat'ral freedom of her fong,
In artful measures now the floats along;
No fprightly fallies roufe the flumb'ring pit;
Thalia, grown mere architect in wit.
To doors and ladders has confin'd her cares,
Convenient closets, and a fnug back-stairs;
'Twixt her and Satire has diffolv'd the league,
And jilted Humour to enjoy Intrigue.
To gain the fuff'rage of this polish'd age,
We bring to-night a ftranger on the stage:
His fire De Vega; we confess this truth,
Left you mistake him for a British youth.
Severe the cenfure on my feeble pen,
Neglecting manners, that the copies men:
Thus, if I hum or ha, or name report,
'Tis Serjeant Splitcaufe from the Inns of Court;
If, at the age that ladies cease to dance,
To romp at Ranelagh, or read romance,
I draw a dowager inclin'd to man,
Or paint he rage for china or japan,
The true original is quickly known,
And lady Squab proclaim'd throughout the town.
But in the following group let no man dare
To claim a linib, nay, not a fingle hair:
What gallant Briton can be fuch a fot
To own the child a Spaniard has begot.