Your scene precariously subsists too long,
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; read more

Your scene precariously subsists too long,
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage.

My sister wanted to be an actress. She never made it, but she does live in a trailer... so she read more

My sister wanted to be an actress. She never made it, but she does live in a trailer... so she got halfway. She's an actress, she's just never called to the set.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
read more

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold--
For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage.

This is the Jew that Shakespeare drew.

This is the Jew that Shakespeare drew.

My favorite review described me as the cinematic equivalent of junk mail.

My favorite review described me as the cinematic equivalent of junk mail.

There still remains to mortify a wit
The many-headed monster of the pit.

There still remains to mortify a wit
The many-headed monster of the pit.

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.

Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks;
Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks.
The founder's read more

Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks;
Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks.
The founder's you: the table is the place:
The carvers we: the prologue is the grace.
Each act, a course, each scene, a different dish,
Though we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for flesh.
Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp and rough.
Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepperproof?
Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true
Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew.
Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join.
Are butcher's meat, a battle's sirloin:
Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft and chaste,
Are water-gruel without salt or taste.

Prologues like compliments are loss of time;
'Tis penning bows and making legs in rhyme.

Prologues like compliments are loss of time;
'Tis penning bows and making legs in rhyme.