[C]
Though in general this Tragedy is colder than the most extreme Parts of
_Nova Zembla_,[D] yet we now and then feel a Warmth, but it is such a
Warmth or Glow rather, as is sometimes produced by the Handling of Snow.
Bad as this Play is, yet will the Author have the Profits of his Three
Nights: Few on the First Night having either Taste or Spirit to express
their Disapprobation. Like the Rascals who plundered _Lisbon_ after
the Earthquake, Mr. _David Malloch_ will extract Guineas out of
Rubbish.
We shall now give, in a few Words, the Quintessence of this Play. Monarchs
ought to be just. Heroes are bad Men. Husbands ought to die for their
Wives, Wives for their Husbands. We ought to govern our Passions. And the
Sun shines on all alike. A few of these new Remarks form the Sum total of
this contemptible Piece.
After the Play we were entertained with an Epilogue fraught with Humour,
and spoken with Spirit. There was a Simile of a Bundle of Twigs formed
into a Rod, which seemed to convey a delicate Allusion to Mr.
_Malloch_'s original Profession,[E] and some of the Lines contained an
exquisite and severe Criticism on the Play itself.
Amidst all the harshness inspired by a real Feeling of the Dulness of the
Composition itself, it would be unjust not to bestow the highest Applause
on the principal Performers, by the Energy of whose Action even Dulness
was sometimes rendered respectable.
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