THE

ROSCIAD.

BY CHARLES CHURCHILL.

THE

ROSCIAD.

Roscius deceas'd, each high aspiring play'r
Push'd all his int'rest for the vacant chair ;
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserv'd mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er th' extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in ev'ry scar.

But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed who best can pay :
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of Merit, force of Bribes.

What can an actor give? in ev'ry age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of ev'ry play'r,
Appear as often as their image there:

They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.

Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon;
And of roast beef, they only know the tune:

But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Tho' for each million he had brought home four?

Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there.
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat!
Foote, at Old House, for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit an actor, bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.

The town divided, each runs sev'ral ways,
As passion, humour, int'rest, party, sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplac'd,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.

From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises,-he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,
Palmer! Oh! Palmer tops the janty part.
Seated in pit, the dwarf, with aching eyes,
Looks up, and vows that Barry's out of size;
Whilst to six feet the vig'rous strippling grown,
Declares that Garrick is another Coan.

When place of judgment is by whim supply'd, And our opinions have their rise in pride; When, in discoursing on each mimic elf, We praise and censure with an eye to self; All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair In such a court, as Garrick for the chair.

At length agreed, all squabbles to decide, By some one judge the cause was to be try'd; But this their squabbles did afresh renew, Who should be judge in such a trial: who?