THE PATENTEE: OR, Some Reflections in Verse on Mr. R—'s forgetting the Design of his Majesty's Bear-Garden at Hockly in the Hole, and Letting out the Theatre in Dorset-Garden to the same Use, on the Day when Mr. Dryden's Obsequies were perform'd; And both Play-houses forbore Acting in Honour to his Memory.
'TWAS well perform'd, as it was well design'd,
And Lords and Commons the Procession joyn'd;
Horror in all its Pomp of Sorrows drew
A Scene of Woe which Grief could hardly view,
When through the Streets the mournful Chariots pass'd,
And slowly bore what Fate destroy'd in hast;
As weeping Crouds officious in their Praise,
Sprinkled with flowing Tears the wither'd Bays.
Yet what avails it? That this Prince of Bards,
Has all just Honours paid, and due Regards;
That He in Chaucer's Grave most Nobly sleeps,
And Fame around his Tomb her Vigils keeps:
That Learned Garth his Sacred Worth has shown
In Eloquence, not Second to his own,
And, speaking what shall be with pleasure read,
Reviv'd those Vertues which he wept for Dead.
That Hireling Players could their Acts refrain,
And greedy Patentees forgoe their Gain,
To pay their cheap Acknowledgments of Woe,
And own a Debt which they must ever owe;
If on the solemn Day the Stage is lent
For Slaves to tread, and Villains to frequent,
As Noise, and Nonsence joyn'd together sit,
And desecrates the Hallow'd Seat of WIT.
Oh! Sacred Bard, from whose instructive Lays,
Britannia conquers Italy in Praise,
Who feel'st the Raptures which thy Numbers taught,
And ha'st no other Eyes but those of Thought;
A while forget thy bless'd Abode, and see
That House prophan'd which owes its Fame to Thee.
Within whose Walls thy coppy'd Heroes shew,
How much the Feign'd could personate the True;
Behold the Structure, and survey the Dome
Which makes Augusta Rival ancient Rome,
And shews the Glories of the British Isle,
As Europe cannot boast a Nobler Pile;
The best of Buildings, and the worst abus'd,
A Stable should not be so meanly us'd.
Ah! see the Place where thy Ventidius stood,
Bending with Years, and most profusely good,
Unmov'd by Fate, and of unshaken Truth,
His Counsels those of Age, His Courage that of Youth;
Where Mourning Anthony contesting strove
Which to relinquish, Honour, or his Love,
As ev'ry Hearer's Sorrows took his Part,
And truly wept for him who griev'd with Art.
Butchers and Bailiffs now the Boxes fill,
Where Ladies Eyes were Instruments to kill,
Where Kit-Cats sate, and Toasters would be seen,
These swoln with Wit, and those with Letch'ry lean.
But its in vain that I Resentments show,
The craving Muck-worm R—will have it so,
And spight of Shame, and due Respect to Sence,
Has turn'd it to a Slaughter-house for Pence.
Departed Shade! For whom he Sorrows feigns,
And sends his Mourning Coaches for his Gains,
Down from above thy Sacred Spirit dart,
And Influence, some Author with thy Art,
To lash the griping Wretch, who dare debase,
So fine a Structure, and so sweet a Place.
May P—l leave him, nor V—n more
Act a Coquet, or an imagin'd Wh—re.
May W—ks no fam'd Sir Harry Wild-airs make,
Diverting only for its Actors sake,
But Patentee left Weeping in the lurch,
See Drury-Play-house thin as Parish-Church;
'Till it at last has neither Wh—re, not Cully,
A just Reward for Dorset-Garden Folly;
And is let out (to finish it's disgrace)
To sell the Meat that's kill'd at t'other Place.