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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;

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poem by Charles Churchill
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Fear is that little darkroom where negatives are developed.

quote by Michael Pritchard
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You don't stop laughing because you grow old. You grow old because you stop laughing.

quote by Michael Pritchard
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No matter how rich you become, how famous or powerful, when you die the size of your funeral will still pretty much depend on the weather.

quote by Michael Pritchard
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I want a girl.

I want a girl,
A girl that makes me happy.
A girl, that makes me head twirl,
And makes me never feel crappy.
A girl, that knows what to say to me,
A girl that makes me good,
Whenever I sad be,
And makes me feel like I should.

I want to meet this girl,
since she's gonna make my head twirl.
I want to be with her, so we won't be blue.
Where are you?

poem by James Pritchard
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A Bush

A Bush in the middle of a group of tree,
slowly decaying and dieing it shall be.
Turning from green to brown,
getting nothing jsut a frown.
No animals in it nest,
for it is not like the rest.
Everytime it gets a bit more green,
it's a great big scene.
But it always gets browner in the ends,
all alone without real friends.
While all the trees green and thrive,
all the bush does is simply die.

poem by James Pritchard
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The Apology

ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.

Tristitiam et Metus.--HORACE.

Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride,
Assume the pompous port, the martial stride;
O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous shield,
Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield;
With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy,
And dare to single combat--what?--A fly!
And laugh we less when giant names, which shine
Establish'd, as it were, by right divine;
Critics, whom every captive art adores,
To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores;
Who high in letter'd reputation sit,
And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit,
With partial rage rush forth--oh! shame to tell!--
To crush a bard just bursting from the shell?
Great are his perils in this stormy time
Who rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme:

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poem by Charles Churchill
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