After the rare Arch-Poet JOHNSON dy'd, The Sock grew loathsome, and the Buskins pride, Together with the Stages glory stood Each like a poore and pitied widowhood. The Cirque prophan'd was, and all postures rack'd: For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act. Then temper flew from words, and men did squeake, Looke red, and blow, and bluster, but not speake: No Holy-Rage, or frantick-fires did stirre, Or flash about the spacious Theater. No clap of hands, or shout, or praises-proofe Did crack the Play-house sides, or cleave her roofe. Artlesse the Sceane was; and that monstrous sin Of deep and arrant ignorance came in; Such ignorance as theirs was, who once hist At thy unequal'd Play, the Alchymist: Oh fie upon 'em! Lastly too, all witt In utter darknes did, and still will sit Sleeping the lucklesse Age out, till that she Her Resurrection ha's again with Thee.
