Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350 Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, gone? Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! Awake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake! Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake! Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread? On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask, And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 590 From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim The rival candidates for Attic fame! For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, Behold the new Petronius of the day, The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, Each to his humour Comus all allows; Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 651 Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! Of piteous ruin which ourselves have |