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by Oliver Goldsmith (Author)
Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes. Excuse me, sirs, I pray-I can't yet speak- I'm crying now-and have been all the week. "'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters: "I've that within"-for which there are no plasters Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying And if she goes, my tears will never stop; For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop: I am undone, that's all-shall lose my bread- I'd rather, but that's nothing-lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. We now and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us, They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. But why can't I be moral?-Let me try- My heart thus pressing-fixed my face and eye- With a sententious look, that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin: "All is not gold that glitters, "Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters. "When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand: "Learning is better far than house and land. "Let not your virtue trip; who trips may stumble, "And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble."
