Читать книгу Plays, written by Sir John Vanbrugh, volume the first - John Vanbrugh - Страница 7

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Spoken by Miss Cross.

Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ, To be o'ercharg'd with either Plot or Wit; 'Twas got, conceiv'd, and born in six Weeks Space, And Wit, you know, 's as slow in Growth——as Grace. Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your Taste; I doubt 'twill prove our Author bred too fast: For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry, They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry. 'Tis the hard Fate of those who are big with Rhyme, Still to be brought-to-bed before their Time. Of our late Poets, Nature few has made; The greatest part——are only so by Trade. Still want of something brings the scribbling Fit; For want of Money some of 'em have writ, And others do't, you see—for want of Wit. Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write, So out they lug in resty Nature's spight, As some of you spruce Beaux do—when you fight. Yet let the Ebb of Wit be ne'er so low, Some Glimpse of it a Man may hope to show, Upon a Theme so ample——as a Beau. So, howsoe'er true Courage may decay, Perhaps there's not one Smock-Face here to-day, But's bold as Cæsar—to attack a Play. Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted Face, } To do the Thing with more heroick Grace, } 'Tis six to four y' attack the strongest Place. } You are such Hotspurs in this kind of Venture, Where there's no Breach, just there you needs must enter. But be advis'd—— E'en give the Hero and the Critique o'er, } For Nature sent you on another score; } She formed her Beau, for nothing but her Whore. }