But as for all the rest,
There's hardly one (I may say none) who stands the Artist's test.
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But as for all the rest,
There's hardly one (I may say none) who stands the Artist's test.
The Artist is a rare, rare breed. There were but two, forsooth,
In all me time (the stage's prime!) and The Other One was Booth.

Prologues precede the piece in mournful verse,
As undertakers walk before the hearse.

Prologues precede the piece in mournful verse,
As undertakers walk before the hearse.

Someone who's like Angelina Jolie because she isn't scared of not being pretty. She's my favourtie actress. I'd love a read more

Someone who's like Angelina Jolie because she isn't scared of not being pretty. She's my favourtie actress. I'd love a role like the one she played in 'Girl, Interrupted'. I've never met her.. I'd be so nervous! And star-struck!

It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy,
It's very hard one can't enjoy
A little private spouting;
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It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy,
It's very hard one can't enjoy
A little private spouting;
But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives,
Up comes our master, Bounce! and gives
The tragic Muse a routing.

The point of acting is to pretend you're someone else and sell a story.

The point of acting is to pretend you're someone else and sell a story.

My only regret in the theatre is that I could never sit out front
and watch me.

My only regret in the theatre is that I could never sit out front
and watch me.

A long, exact, and serious comedy;
In every scene some moral let it teach,
And, if it read more

A long, exact, and serious comedy;
In every scene some moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.

The best actors do not let the wheels show.

The best actors do not let the wheels show.

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.