SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, AT THE Opening of the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane, 1747. WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose ; The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame, Themselves they studied as they felt they writ; Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. Vice always found a sympathetic friend; strong, Then, crush'd by rules,and weaken'd as refin'd, And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her sway. Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age, And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage. * Hunt, a famous boxer on the stage; Mahomet, a ropedancer, who had exhibited at Covent-Garden Theatre the winter before, said to be a Turk. YE glitt'ring train, whom lace and velvet bless, Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress! From grov'ling business and superfluous care, Ye sons of Avarice, a moment spare! Vot'ries of Fame, and worshippers of Power, Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour! Our daring bard, with spirit unconfin'd, Spreads wide the mighty moral for mankind. Learn here how Heav'n supports the virtuous mind, Daring, though calm and vig'rous, though resign'd. Learn here what anguish racks the guilty breast, In pow'r dependent, in success deprest. Learn here that Peace from Innocence must flow; All else is empty sound and idle show. If truths like these with pleasing language join; Ennobled, yet unchang'd, if Nature shine; If no wild draught depart from Reason's rules, Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools: Intriguing Wits! his artless plot forgive; And spare him, Beauties! though his lovers live. Be this at least his praise, be this his pride; To force applause no modern arts are try'd. Should partial catcalls all his hopes confound, He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound. Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit, He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit. No snares to captivate the judgment spreads, Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads. Unmov'd though Witlings sneer and Rivals rail; Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail. He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain, With merit needless, and without it vain. In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust : Ye Fops, be silent and ye Wits, be just! |