  To be spoken by Mrs. Bulkley. There is a place—so Ariosto sings— A treasury for lost and missing things; Lost human wits have places there assign’d them— And they who lose their senses, there may find them. But where’s this place, this storehouse of the age? The Moon, says he; but I affirm, the Stage— At least, in many things, I think I see His lunar and our mimic world agree: Both shine at night—for, but at Foote’s alone. We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down: Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics. But, in this parallel, my best pretence is, That mortals visit both to find their senses: To this strange spot, rakes, maccaronies, cits, Come thronging to collect their scatter’d wits. The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing, Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The gamester, too, whose wit’s all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The Mohawk,55 too, with angry phrases stor’d— As, “Dam’me, Sir!” and “Sir, I wear a sword!”— Here lesson’d for a while, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here come the sons of scandal and of news, But find no sense—for they had none to lose. Of all the tribes here wanting an adviser, Our Author’s the least likely to grow wiser; Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in lace? Without a star, a coronet, or garter, How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? No high-life scenes, no sentiment—the creature Still stoops among the low to copy nature: Yes, he’s far gone: and yet some pity fix; The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. FOOTNOTES:55The ruffian of the streets, in the 18th century. |
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