Poet.  Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean,
Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill! 
Hide from my sight that billowy commotion
That draws us down the whirlpool ’gainst our will. 
No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion,
Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses’ hill;
Where love and friendship aye create and cherish,
With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish. 
Ah! what, from feeling’s deepest fountain springing,
Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed,
Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging,
To the wild moment’s cry a prey is cast. 
Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing
It comes in full and rounded shape at last. 
What shines, is born but for the moment’s pleasure;
The genuine leaves posterity a treasure.

Merry Person.  Posterity!  I’m sick of hearing of it;
Supposing I the future age would profit,
Who then would furnish ours with fun? 
For it must have it, ripe and mellow;
The presence of a fine young fellow,
Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one. 
Whoso can pleasantly communicate,
Will not make war with popular caprices,
For, as the circle waxes great,
The power his word shall wield increases. 
Come, then, and let us now a model see,
Let Phantasy with all her various choir,
Sense, reason, passion, sensibility,
But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire.

Manager.  But the great point is action!  Every one
Comes as spectator, and the show’s the fun. 
Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly,
So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise,
Then have you made a wide impression quickly,
You are the man they’ll idolize. 
The mass can only be impressed by masses;
Then each at last picks out his proper part. 
Give much, and then to each one something passes,
And each one leaves the house with happy heart. 
Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces! 
Such a ragout your fame increases;
It costs as little pains to play as to invent. 
But what is gained, if you a whole present? 
Your public picks it presently to pieces.

Poet.  You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be! 
In the true Artist’s eyes how false and hollow! 
Our genteel botchers, well I see,
Have given the maxims that you follow.

Manager.  Such charges pass me like the idle wind;
A man who has right work in mind
Must choose the instruments most fitting. 
Consider what soft wood you have for splitting,
And keep in view for whom you write! 
If this one from ennui seeks flight,
That other comes full from the groaning table,
Or, the worst case of all to cite,
From reading journals is for thought unable. 
Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder,
As to a masquerade they wing their way;
The ladies give themselves and all their precious