Reclining on a funeral urn,
  Her short-lived darling son to mourn. 
  The last was he, whose thunder slew
  The Titan race, a rebel crew,
  That, from a hundred hills allied
  In impious leagues, their king defied. 
     This wonder of the sculptor’s hand
  Produced, his art was at a stand: 
  For who would hope new fame to raise,
  Or risk his well-established praise,
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  That, his high genius to approve,
  Had drawn a GEORGE, or carved a Jove!

THE PLAY-HOUSE.

  Where gentle Thames through stately channels glides,
  And England’s proud metropolis divides;
  A lofty fabric does the sight invade,
  And stretches o’er the waves a pompous shade;
  Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood surprise,
  And thundering claps and dreadful hissings rise. 
    Here thrifty R——­[16] hires monarchs by the day,
  And keeps his mercenary kings in pay;
  With deep-mouth’d actors fills the vacant scenes,
  And rakes the stews for goddesses and queens: 
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  Here the lewd punk, with crowns and sceptres graced,
  Teaches her eyes a more majestic cast;
  And hungry monarchs with a numerous train
  Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve and reign. 
     But enter in, my Muse; the stage survey,
  And all its pomp and pageantry display;
  Trap-doors and pit-falls, form the unfaithful ground,
  And magic walls encompass it around: 
  On either side maim’d temples fill our eyes,
  And intermixed with brothel-houses rise;
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  Disjointed palaces in order stand,
  And groves obedient to the mover’s hand
  O’ershade the stage, and flourish at command. 
  A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire: 
  So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre,
  He saw the spacious circuit all around,
  With crowding woods and rising cities crown’d. 
     But next the tiring-room survey, and see
  False titles, and promiscuous quality,
  Confus’dly swarm, from heroes and from queens,
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  To those that swing in clouds and fill machines. 
  Their various characters they choose with art,
  The frowning bully fits the tyrant’s part: 
  Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make an host,
  Pale, meagre looks and hollow voice a ghost;
  From careful brows and heavy downcast eyes,
  Dull cits and thick-skull’d aldermen arise: 
  The comic tone, inspir’d by Congreve, draws
  At every word, loud laughter and applause: 
  The whining dame continues as before,
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  Her character unchanged, and acts a whore. 
     Above the rest, the prince with haughty stalks
  Magnificent in purple buskins walks: 
  The royal robes his awful shoulders grace,
  Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace: 
  Officious rascals to his mighty thigh,
  Guiltless of blood, the unpointed weapon tie: 
  Then the gay glittering diadem put on,