humour.

_C. M._ 'Tis true--his dashes of coarse fun and drollery,
Might smooth the wrinkles of a pedant's brow,
And loose a stoic's muscles: and sometimes
Beneath his various merry-andrew coat
I've thought I spied the stamp of manly genius,
Some vestige of his father's purest wit.
But ah! I fear 'twas a false light betray'd me.
Let him write farce; but let him not presume
To jumble fun and opera, grave and comic,
In one vile mess--then call the mixture Shakspeare.
No more of him: my hopes are all evanish'd,
For "Hexham's battle," slew him: "The Iron Chest"
Sunk him to Shadwell's bathos; and "John Bull"
Drove off in wild affright the polish'd muse.

_P._ Sure there are more, whose names have not yet reach'd me.

_C. M._ Why should I rescue from oblivion's flood,
Such names as Morton, Reynolds, Dibdin, Cherry.
Morton a melancholy wight, whose muse,
Now sighs and sobs, like newly bottled ale,
Now splits her ugly mouth with grinning.[10]
Reynolds,[11] whose muse most monstrous and misshapen,
Outvies the hideous form that Horace drew.
Dibdin[12] a ballad monger--and for Cherry--
But Cherry has no character at all.

_P._ Who is the favour'd bard you come to seek?

_C. M._ For sterling wit and manly sense combin'd,
Where, Congreve, shall I find thy parallel?
For charming ease, who equals polish'd Vanbrugh?
Where shall we see such graceful pleasantry
As Farquhar's muse with lavish bounty scatters?
But yet, ye great triumvirate--I fear
To call you back to earth, for ye debas'd
With vile impurities the comic muse,
And made her delicate mouth pronounce such things
As would disgust a Wilmot in full blood,
Or shock an Atheist roaring o'er his cups[13]
O shameful profligate abuse of powers,
Indulg'd to you for higher, nobler purposes,
Than to pollute the sacred fount of virtue,
Which, plac'd by heaven, springs in each human breast.

_P._ Too true your words. But what of Massinger?[14]

_C. M._ O how I love his independent genius,
As vigorous as the youthful eagle's pinion.
With admiration and with joy I view
The master-touches of his powerful hand.
But, oh! I fear his muse too grand and weighty,
For this less manly, though more elegant age.[15]

_P._ Then choose the milder song of gentle Fletcher.

_C. M._ 'Tis true, 'tis mild as notes of dying swans,[16]
But I'd have something of a loftier strain,
Which sweep