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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.
I know very little about acting. I'm just an incredibly gifted faker.
I know very little about acting. I'm just an incredibly gifted faker.
It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy,
It's very hard one can't enjoy
A little private spouting;
read more
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.
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.
Tom Goodwin was an actor-man,
Old Drury's pride and boast,
In all the light and spritely parts,
read more
Tom Goodwin was an actor-man,
Old Drury's pride and boast,
In all the light and spritely parts,
Especially the ghost.
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.
If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good
play needs no epilogue.
If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good
play needs no epilogue.
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.
