51 



There, cold Philosophy bestows a sneer, 

 Reason, a laugh ! Pity, alone, a tear ! 



O er mimic sorrows some their tears bestow, 

 The Stranger s troubles, or Paulina s woe : 

 Where grief bombastic sets the galleries winking, 

 With eyes, ears, mouth, each newest horror drink 

 ing ; 



And Melodrame, with lungs like a tornado, 

 Dies in hyperbole, and fierce bravado : 

 While those who, elsewhere, ne er a tear confess, 

 Or give a sous to aid a real distress, 

 Here pay to blubber o er a play-wright s cant, 

 And moan, when burly Forrests rant : 

 To ev ry virtuous sympathy give vent, 

 Applaud the good and laud the innocent, 

 For half an hour but, one would sure amaze 

 To ask them, once to practice what they praise. 

 Thus to be good, is, sure, the easiest way, 

 And virtuous be, by proxy in a play ; 

 To Heaven, give some common place abstractions, 

 But to the Devil, all our life s transactions ; 

 Nod at a virtue, when it passes by, 

 If seen, perhaps, in Fashion s company, 

 But should the rascal, elsewhere, be obtrusive, 



