Warwick.
* * * * *
"SHAKSPEARE IN THE SHADES:" A BALLAD.
The ballad, entitled "Shakspeare's Bedside," inserted in your pages (Vol.
vii., p. 104.), was printed (probably for the first time) in a collection
of poems called _The Muse's Mirrour_, 2 vols. 8vo., printed for Robert
Baldwin, 1778. It occurs at p. 90. of the first volume; and at p. 159. of
the same volume I find another Shakspearian ballad, which, as the book is
rare, I transcribe for the benefit of your readers. The work in question
contains a number of clever effusions by the poets and wits of the last
half of the eighteenth century. The anonymous compiler thus commences his
preface:
"The editor and collector of the following poems does not conceive it
necessary to make any apology for what he has done; but arrogates to
himself the right of some attention for the collecting of such pieces
as would have died upon their births, although the productions of the
best poets and men of genius _for the last twenty years_."
"SHAKSPEARE IN THE SHADES.
"As Shakspeare rang'd over the regions below,
With the Muses attending his side,
The first of his critics he met with was Rowe,
Tho' to keep out of sight he had try'd.
'How comes it, friend Nicholas,' said the old bard,
(While Nic was preparing a speech),
'My ruins so coarsely by you were repair'd,
Who grace to the Graces could teach?'
'Had the time you employ'd when _The Biter_[1] you wrote,
So hiss'd by the critical throng,
Been spent upon mending the holes in my coat,
It had not been ragged so long.'
Rowe blush'd, and made way for diminutive Pope,
Whom Shakspeare address'd with a frown,
And said--'Some apology sure I may hope
From you and your friend in the gown.'
'Had the murderous knife which my plays has destroy'd,
By lopping full many a scene,
To make you a lover like him, been employ'd,
How flat Cibber's letter had been.'
Pope sneak'd off confounded; and Hanmer drew near,
Whose softness a savage might melt;
So Shakspeare said only, 'Sir Thomas, I fear,
With gloves on, my beauties you felt.'
{231}
Supported by Caxton, Wynkin upheld,
Text Tibbald crept forward to sight.
'Is this,' quoth the poet, 'the thing that rebell'd,
And dar'd even Pope to the fight?
'To Kennel, good Tib, for a time will arrive,
When all in their senses shall know,
That half of your consequence, Tib, you derive
From the lash of so envied a foe.
'Eight hundred old plays thou declar'st thou hast read[2];
How could'st thou the public so cozen?
Yet the traces I see (spite of what thou hast said)
Of not many more than a dozen.
'If all thou hast dug, how could Farmer, my Tib,
Or Stevens, find gold in the mine?
Thy trade of attorney sure taught thee to fib,
And truth was no client of thine.
'And yet, to appease me for all thou hast done,
And show thou art truly my friend,
Go watch, and to me with intelligence run,
When Johnson and Capell descend.
'For Johnson, with all his mistakes, I must love;
Ev'n love from the injured he gains;
But Capell a comrade for dulness will prove,
And him thou may'st take for thy pains.'"