Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong;
The morning-call and counter were her dread,
And her contempt the needle and the thread: 
But when she read a gentle damsel’s part,
Her woe, her wish! she had them all by heart. 
   At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,
Who spake of love till sigh re-echo’d sigh;
He told in honey’d words his deathless flame,
And she his own by tender vows became;
Nor ring nor licence needed souls so fond,
Alfonso’s passion was his Cynthia’s bond: 
And thus the simple girl, to shame betray’d,
Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismay’d. 
   Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,
See her! the grief and scandal of the troop;
A wretched martyr to a childish pride,
Her woe insulted, and her praise denied: 
Her humble talents, though derided, used,
Her prospects lost, her confidence abused;
All that remains—­for she not long can brave
Increase of evils—­is an early grave. 
   Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed
What dreams you cherish, and what books ye read! 
   A decent sum had Peter Nottage made,
By joining bricks—­to him a thriving trade: 
Of his employment master and his wife,
This humble tradesman led a lordly life;
The house of kings and heroes lack’d repairs,
And Peter, though reluctant, served the Players: 
Connected thus, he heard in way polite, —
“Come, Master Nottage, see us play to night,”
At first ’twas folly, nonsense, idle stuff,
But seen for nothing it grew well enough;
And better now—­now best, and every night,
In this fool’s paradise he drank delight;
And as he felt the bliss, he wish’d to know
Whence all this rapture and these joys could flow;
For if the seeing could such pleasure bring,
What must the feeling?—­feeling like a king? 
   In vain his wife, his uncle, and his friend,
Cried—­“Peter!  Peter! let such follies end;
’Tis well enough these vagabonds to see,
But would you partner with a showman be?”
   “Showman!” said Peter, “did not Quin and Clive,
And Roscius-Garrick, by the science thrive? 
Showman!—­’tis scandal; I’m by genius led
To join a class who’ve Shakspeare at their head.” 
   Poor Peter thus by easy steps became
A dreaming candidate for scenic fame,
And, after years consumed, infirm and poor,
He sits and takes the tickets at the door. 
   Of various men these marching troops are made, —
Pen-spurning clerks, and lads contemning trade;
Waiters and servants by confinement teased,
And youths of wealth by dissipation eased;
With feeling nymphs, who, such resource at hand,
Scorn to obey the rigour of command;
Some, who from higher views by vice are won,
And some of either sex by love undone;
The greater part lamenting as their fall,
What some an honour and advancement call. 
   There are who names in shame or fear assume,
And hence our Bevilles and our Savilles come;