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See, how these rascals use me! They will not let my play run;
and yet they steal my thunder.
See, how these rascals use me! They will not let my play run;
and yet they steal my thunder.
I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my
own just above the others; because in read more
I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my
own just above the others; because in it I recognize the union
and culmination of my own. To me it seems as if when God
conceived the world, that was Poetry; He formed it, and that was
Sculpture; He colored it, and that was Painting; He peopled it
with living beings, and that was the grand, divine, eternal
Drama.
Acting is not being emotional, but being able to express emotion.
Acting is not being emotional, but being able to express emotion.
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.
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.
But as for all the rest,
There's hardly one (I may say none) who stands the Artist's test.
read more
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.
You need three things in the theatre--the play, the actors and the audience,--and each must give something.
You need three things in the theatre--the play, the actors and the audience,--and each must give something.
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.
