POETS and Painters, who from Nature draw Their be?t and riche?t Stores, have made this Law: That each ?hould neighbourly a??i?t his Brother, And ?teal with Decency from one another. To-night, your matchle?s Hogarth gives the Thought, Which from his Canvas to the Stage is brought. And who ?o fit to warm the Poet's Mind, As he who pictur'd Morals and Mankind? But not the ?ame their Characters and Scenes; Both labour for one End, by different Means: Each, as it ?uits him, takes a ?eparate Road, Their one great Object, Marriage-a-la-mode! Where Titles deign with Cits to have and hold, And change rich Blood for more ?ub?tantial Gold! And honour'd Trade from Intere?t turns a?ide, To hazard Happine?s for titled Pride. The Painter dead, yet ?till he charms the Eye; While England lives, his Fame can never die: But he, who ?truts his Hour upon the Stage, Can ?carce extend his Fame for Half an Age; Nor Pen nor Pencil can the Actor ?ave, The Art, and Arti?t, ?hare one common Grave. ?O let me drop one tributary Tear, On poor Jack Fal?taff's Grave, and Juliet's Bier! You to their Worth mu?t Te?timony give; 'Tis in your Hearts alone their Fame can live. Still as the Scenes of Life will ?hift away, The ?trong Impre??ions of their Art decay. Your Children cannot feel what you have known; They'll boa?t of Quins and Cibbers of their own: The greate?t Glory of our happy few, Is to be felt, and be approv'd by you.