The Works of Henry Fielding

Too long the Tragick Muse hath aw’d the stage, And frighten’d wives and children with her rage, Too long Drawcansir roars, Parthenope weeps, While ev’ry lady cries, and critick sleeps With ghosts, rapes, murders, tender hearts they wound, Or else, like thunder, terrify with sound When the skill’d actress to her weeping eyes, With artful sigh, the handkerchief applies, How griev’d each sympathizing nymph appears!