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　　EPILOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF "RICHARD II."

　　(1824)

　　Of all that act, the hardest task is theirs,

　　Who, bred no Players, play at being Players;

　　Copy the shrug—in Kemble once approved;—

　　Mere mimics' mimics—nature twice removed.

　　Shades of a shadow! who but must have seen

　　The stage-struck hero, in some swelling scene

　　Aspiring to be Lear—stumble on Kean?

　　The admired actor's faults our steps betray,—

　　No less his very beauties lead astray!

　　In "sad civility" once Garrick sate

　　To see a Play, mangled in form and state;

　　Plebeian Shakspeare must the words supply,—

　　The actors all were Fools—of Quality.

　　The scenes—the dresses—were above rebuke;—

　　Scarce a Performer there below a Duke.

　　He sate, and mused how in his Shakspeare's mind

　　The idea of old Nobility enshrined

　　Should thence a grace and a refinement have

　　Which passed these living Nobles to conceive,—

　　Who with such apish, base gesticulation,

　　Remnants of starts, and dregs of playhouse passion,

　　So foul belied their great forefathers' fashion!

　　He saw—and true Nobility confessed

　　Less in the high-born blood, than lowly poet's breast.

　　If Lords enacting Lords sometimes may fail,

　　What gentle plea, Spectators, can avail

　　For wight of low degree who dares to stir

　　The long-raked ashes of old Lancaster,

　　And on his nothing-martial front to set

　　Of warlike Gaunt the lofty burgonet?

　　For who shall that Plantagenet display,

　　Majestical in sickness and decay?

　　Or paint the shower of passions fierce and thick

　　On Richard's head—that Royal Splenetic?

　　Your pardon, not your plaudits, then we claim

　　If we've come short, where Garrick had been tame! The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4