SPOKEN BY MR GARRICK BEFORE THE 'MASQUE OF COMUS,'
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e patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame!Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name,Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times!Immortal patrons of succeeding days,Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;Let Wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wageWith close Malevolence, or Public Rage;Let Study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. 10This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tellThat never Briton can in vain excel:The slightest arts futurity shall trust,And rising ages hasten to be just. At length our mighty bard's victorious laysFill the loud voice of universal praise;And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,Yields to Renown the centuries to come;With ardent haste each candidate of fame,Ambitious, catches at his towering name; 20He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestowThose pageant honours which he scorn'd below.While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,Or trace his form on circulating gold,Unknown--unheeded, long his offspring lay,And Want hung threatening o'er her slow decay.What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire?Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,Her youth laborious, and her blameless age; 30Hers the mild merits of domestic life,The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.Thus graced with humble Virtue's native charms,Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;Secure with peace, with competence to dwell,While tutelary nations guard her cell.Yours is the charge, ye fair! ye wise! ye brave!'Tis yours to crown desert--beyond the grave. * * * * *
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