III.

When woman’s soft smile all our senses bewilders, And gilds while it carves, her dear form on the heart, What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders? With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

(IV.

Each pillar that opens our stage to the circle, is Verdant antique, like Ninon de l’Enclos, I’d ramble from them to the pillars of Hercules, Give me but Rosa wherever I go.)

How well would our actors attend to their duties, Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!