Oh of the motley throng speak not before me, At whose aspect the Spirit wings its flight! Conceal the surging concourse, I implore thee, Whose vortex draws us with resistless might. No, to some peaceful heavenly nook restore me, Where only for the bard blooms pure delight, Where love and friendship yield their choicest blessing, Our heart's true bliss, with godlike hand caressing.
What in the spirit's depths was there created, What shyly there the lip shaped forth in sound; A failure now, with words now fitly mated, In the wild tumult of the hour is drown'd; Full oft the poet's thought for years hath waited Until at length with perfect form 'tis crowned; What dazzles, for the moment born, must perish; What genuine is posterity will cherish.
This cant about posterity I hate; About posterity were I to prate, Who then the living would amuse? For they Will have diversion, ay, and 'tis their due. A sprightly fellow's presence at your play, Methinks should also count for something too; Whose genial wit the audience still inspires, Knows from their changeful mood no angry feeling; A wider circle he desires, To their heart's depths more surely thus appealing. To work, then! Give a master-piece, my friend; Bring Fancy with her choral trains before us, Sense, reason, feeling, passion, but attend! Let folly also swell the tragic chorus.
In chief, of incident enough prepare! A show they want, they come to gape and stare. Spin for their eyes abundant occupation, So that the multitude may wondering gaze, You by sheer bulk have won your reputation, The man you are all love to praise. By mass alone can you subdue the masses, Each then selects in time what suits his bent. Bring much, you something bring for various classes, And from the house goes every one content. You give a piece, abroad in pieces send it! 'Tis a ragout--success must needs attend it; 'Tis easy to serve up, as easy to invent. A finish'd whole what boots it to present! Full soon the public will in pieces rend it.
How mean such handicraft as this you cannot feel! How it revolts the genuine artist's mind! The sorry trash in which these coxcombs deal, Is here approved on principle, I find.
Such a reproof disturbs me not a whit! Who on efficient work is bent, Must choose the fittest instrument. Consider! 'tis soft wood you have to split; Think too for whom you write, I pray! One comes to while an hour away; One from the festive board, a sated guest; Others, more dreaded than the rest, From journal-reading hurry to the play. As to a masquerade, with absent minds, they press, Sheer curiosity their footsteps winging; Ladies display their persons and their dress, Actors unpaid their service bringing. What dreams beguile you on your poet's height? What puts a full house in a merry mood? More closely view your patrons of the night! The half are cold, the half are rude. One, the play over, craves a game of cards; Another a wild night in wanton joy would spend. Poor fools the muses' fair regards Why court for such a paltry end? I tell you, give them more, still more, 'tis all I ask, Thus you will ne'er stray widely from the goal; Your audience seek to mystify, cajole;-- To satisfy them--that's a harder task. What ails thee? art enraptured or distressed?