Song XLII. the Raree Shew

The Town's a Raree-Shew, some say, A rare Shew for projectors: What pity 'tis, we spoil the play For want of better Actors. But sometimes in, and sometimes out, 'Tis so upon all stages; Folks will not mind what they're about, But only mind the Wages.

Among the imitative arts, Chief is an Actor's science; Expressive Heads, and feeling Hearts, With Nature form alliance. Behind the scenes, tho' Party rage, Caprice, and Adulation, With Slander—but we know the Stage Shou'd represent the Nation.

A Representative indeed!— As Players make believe, Sir, In this World's Drama, to succeed, 'Tis as you can deceive, Sir. You may be caught, by face or dress, Before you come to know folks; But then the Counterfeits confess, They're all—but only Shew-Folks.

Most aim great Characters to hit, Pride spouts as Public Spirit, Pert Dullness is mistook for Wit, And Silenee want of Merit. Some study the Informer's arts, Then Power their side espouses; Some play the Pimps, and Flatterers parts, In hopes to have full houses.

We title this same Droll we shew, The Humours of the Nation — Extremely high, extremely low, Endemic Dissipation. The World!—What by that word we mean, Is self and self's disguises; A busy, lazy, Lottery Scene, Where Folly fills up Prizes.

Whate'er we think, whate'er we say, Whate'er we are pursuing, Is o'er and o'er the self-same play Of doing and undoing. Life's vegetation ripes and rots, 'Till dust to dust returning; So let us sprinkle well our spots And drink from Night to Morning.