Long ago, our English actors Ranked with rogues and vagabonds; They were jailed as malefactors, They were ducked in village ponds.
In the stocks the beadle shut them, While the friends they chanced to meet Would invariably cut them In the street.
With suspicion people eyed them, Ev'ry country-squire would feel That his fallow-deer supplied them With the makings of a meal.
They annexed the parson's rabbits, Poached the pheasants of the peer, And had other little habits Just as queer!
Even Will, the Bard of Avon, As a poacher stands confest, And altho’, of course, cleanshaven, Was as barefaced as the rest.
He, a player by vocation, Practised, like his buckskin'd pals, Indiscriminate flirtation With the gals!
Now, the am'rous actor's cravings For romance are orthodox; Nowadays he puts his savings, Not his ankles, into “stocks.”
Nobody to-day is doubting That a halo round him clings; One can see his shoulders sprouting Into wings.
Watch the mummer managerial, Centre of a rev'rent group; Note with what an air imperial He controls his timid troupe.
Deadheads scrape and bow before him, To his doors the public flocks; Even duchesses implore him For a box.
Enemies, no doubt, will tell us ( What we should not ever guess ) That he is absurdly jealous Of subordinates’ success.
Minor mimes who score a hit or Threaten to advance too fast, Are advised to curb their wit or Leave the cast!
Foes declare that, at rehearsal, Managers are free of speech, And unduly prone to curse all Those who come within their reach.
With some tiny dams ( or damlets ) They exhort each “walking gent —” Language that potential Hamlets Much resent.
Do not autocrats, dictators, All who lead successful lives, Swear repeatedly at waiters, Curse consistently at wives?
Shall the heads of the Profession, Histrionic argonauts, Be denied the frank expression Of their thoughts?
Will not we who so applaud them Execrate with righteous rage Player knaves who would defraud them Of their centre of the stage?
Do we grudge these godlike creatures Picture-cards that advertise — Calcium lights that flood their features From the flies?
No, for ev'ry leading actor Who produces problem plays, Is a most important factor In the world of modern days.
Kings occasionally knight him, Titled ladies take him up; Even millionaires invite him Out to sup.
Proudly he advances, trailing Clouds of limelight from afar, ( Diffidence is not the failing Of the true dramatic “star” ).
What cares he for rank or fashion, Politics or place or pelf? He whose one prevailing passion Is himself?
All the world's a stage, we know it; Managers, whose heads are twirled, Think ( to paraphrase the poet ) That the stage is all the world.
Other men discuss the summer, Or the poor potato crop, Nothing can prevent the mummer Talking “shop.”
With his Art as the objective Of his intellectual pow'rs, He ( as usual, introspective ) Talks about himself for hours.
While his friends, who never dream of Interrupting, stand agog, He decants a ceaseless stream of Monologue.
He is great. He has become it By a long and arduous climb To the crest, the crown, the summit Of the Thespian tree — a lime!
There he chatters like a starling, There, like Jove, he sometimes nods; But he still remains the “darling Of the gods!”
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