Whose claims are all allow’d, and friendship glads the night. 
Now public rooms shall sound with words divine,
And private lodgings hear how heroes shine;
No talk of pay shall yet on pleasure steal,
But kindest welcome bless the friendly meal;
While o’er the social jug and decent cheer,
Shall be described the fortunes of the year. 
   Peruse these bills, and see what each can do, —
Behold! the prince, the slave, the monk, the Jew;
Change but the garment, and they’ll all engage
To take each part, and act in every age: 
Cull’d from all houses, what a house are they! 
Swept from all barns, our Borough-critics say;
But with some portion of a critic’s ire,
We all endure them; there are some admire: 
They might have praise, confined to farce alone;
Full well they grin, they should not try to groan;
But then our servants’ and our seamen’s wives
Love all that rant and rapture as their lives;
He who ’Squire Richard’s part could well sustain,
Finds as King Richard he must roar amain —
“My horse! my horse!”—­Lo! now to their abodes,
Come lords and lovers, empresses and gods. 
The master-mover of these scenes has made
No trifling gain in this adventurous trade;
Trade we may term it, for he duly buys
Arms out of use and undirected eyes: 
These he instructs, and guides them as he can,
And vends each night the manufactured man: 
Long as our custom lasts they gladly stay,
Then strike their tents, like Tartars! and away! 
The place grows bare where they too long remain,
But grass will rise ere they return again. 
   Children of Thespes, welcome; knights and queens! 
Counts! barons! beauties! when before your scenes,
And mighty monarchs thund’ring from your throne;
Then step behind, and all your glory’s gone: 
Of crown and palace, throne and guards bereft,
The pomp is vanish’d and the care is left. 
Yet strong and lively is the joy they feel,
When the full house secures the plenteous meal;
Flatt’ring and flatter’d, each attempts to raise
A brother’s merits for a brother’s praise: 
For never hero shows a prouder heart,
Than he who proudly acts a hero’s part;
Nor without cause; the boards, we know, can yield
Place for fierce contest, like the tented field. 
   Graceful to tread the stage, to be in turn
The prince we honour, and the knave we spurn;
Bravely to bear the tumult of the crowd,
The hiss tremendous, and the censure loud: 
These are their parts,—­and he who these sustains,
Deserves some praise and profit for his pains. 
Heroes at least of gentler kind are they,
Against whose swords no weeping widows pray,
No blood their fury sheds, nor havoc marks their way. 
   Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress’d,
Your days all pass’d in jeopardy and jest;
Poor without prudence, with afflictions vain,
Not warn’d by misery, not enrich’d by