Classic Poem

Poets and painters, who from Nature draw
Their best and richest stores, have made this law:
That each should neighbourly assist his brother,
And steal with decency from one another.
Tonight, your matchless Hogarth gives the thought,
Which from his canvas to the stage is brought.
And who so fit to warm the poet's mind
As he who pictured morals and mankind?
But not the same their characters and scenes;
Both labour for one end by different means.
Each, as it suits him, takes a separate road,
Their one great object Marriage a la mode :
Where titles deign with cits to have and hold,
And change rich blood for more substantial gold;
And honoured trade from interest turns aside,
To hazard happiness for titled pride.
The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye;
While England lives his fame can never die.
But he who struts his hour upon the stage
Can scarce extend his fame for half an age.
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save,
The art and artist share one common grave.

O let me drop one tributary tear
On poor Jack Falstaff's grave and Juliet's bier.
You to their worth must testimony give;
'Tis in your hearts alone their fame can live.
Still as the scenes of life will shift away,
The strong impressions of their art decay.
Your children cannot feel what you have known;
They'll boast of Quins and Cibbers of their own.
The greatest glory of our happy few
Is to be felt and be approved by you.