An Epistle to Mr. Garrick, on the Report of His Having Left the Stage

So! Mr. Garrick! is it true, As folks report, the stage and you Took a French leave, at parting? We hop'd th' Italian air and diet Had quite restor'd your health and quiet, And made you keen for starting.

In vain we listen'd to the tales Brought over by the foreign mails, That you were home returning; To see your name in capitals, Stuck up on tavern-posts, and walls. With fond impatience burning!

Your wish'd arrival vain to boast, If, never enter'd at the post, You shun the race of glory! As well you might have travell'd on, From Pope to Turk, to Prester John: The world was all before ye.

For to be plain Sir, entre nous, 'Twas not about your wife or you We all were so solicitous: You might as well be there as here, If, as king Richard, Bayes, or Lear, You mean no more to visit us.

Your friends, if friends they are, indeed, Your spirit or your spleen may plead, From acting to excuse ye; But, spite of what your friends declare We, your admirers, cannot bear To get you thus to lose ye.

'Tis true, they make a mighty stir About you, as a manager, Intent on reformation; Busy instructing, in their parts, In clap-trap attitudes and starts, The rising generation.

But ah! in vain removed from sight The candles, to improve the light, Tho' pleas'd the pit immensely! If all your pupils need the rod As much as fiddle-faddle—, Or blustering, bouncing—.

To those, who ne'er have Garrick seen, Such acting may not give the spleen: To me, it is the devil, To sit three hours, my noddle bare, To see your—rant and tear, And hear that—snivel!

I, often as I come to town, In order to spare you a crown, Dine gratis, with my printer; But, damn it, if I'm doom'd to see Such mummers play, instead of thee, I'll come no more this winter.