[31] Falstaff's Wedding, a play written in imitation of Shakespeare;
at first rejected, as unfit for the theatre, on account of having so
many of Shakespeare's known characters in it; tho' the manager himself
afterwards brought on a pageant, in which were almost all
Shakespeare's known characters; when finding it difficult to make any
of them speak with propriety, he contented himself with instructing
them to bite their thumbs, screw up their mouths, and make faces at
each other, to the great edification of the audience.--This play
indeed was afterwards performed, and tho' received with the most
confirmed and general applause, has however never since been acted,
either for the author's emolument or the entertainment of the publick.
[32] Another comedy, nearly under the same predicament with respect
to the town: having been performed but once since its first run, tho'
received with similar approbation; the manager in the mean while
having brought on, and repeatedly acted, the performances of his
favourite play-wrights, to almost empty houses: and yet ROSCIUS hath
all the while pretended to have the highest opinion of the talents,
and the greatest regard for the interest of the writer.---- The
manager claims a legal right, indeed, as patentee, to perform what
plays he pleases; but tho' the play-house and patent be his property,
he has no liberal right to make, at pleasure, a property of the
players, the poets and the publick!
Curse on that KENRICK, foul of spleen and whim!
What are my puffs, and what my gains to him?
If poor and proud, can he of right complain
That wealthier men and wittier are as vain?
Why must he hint that I am past my prime,
To blast my fading laurels ere their time?
Death to my fame, and what, alas, is worse,
'Tis death, damnation, to my craving purse;
Capacious purse! by PLUTUS form'd to hold,
(The God of Wealth) the devil and all of gold.
Insatiate purse, that never yet ran o'er,
But swallows all, and gapes, like Hell, for more.
And yet, alas! how much the world will lye!
They call me miser; but no miser I;
He, brooding o'er his bags, delighted sits,
And laughs to scorn the jests of envious wits;
If fast his doors, he sets his heart at rest,
And dotes with rapture on his iron chest;
No galling paper-squibs his spirits teize,
But ev'n the boys may hoot him if they please.
He scorns the whistling of an empty name,
While I am torn 'twixt avarice and fame;