A
MONODY
TO
THE
MEMORY
OF
MRS.
MARGARET
WOFFINGTON
She
died
the
28th
of
March
,
1760.
.
BY
JOHN
HOOLE
.
Flebilis
indignos
elegia
solve
capillos
,
Ah
!
nimis
ex
vero
nunc
tibi
nomen
erit
.
OVID
.
THERE
fled
the
fair
,
that
all
beholders
charm'd
,
Whose
beauty
fir'd
us
,
and
whose
spirit
warm'd
!
In
that
sad
sigh
th'
unwilling
breath
retir'd
;
The
grace
,
the
glory
of
our
scene
expir'd
!
And
shall
she
die
,
the
Muse's
rites
unpaid
,
No
grateful
lays
to
deck
her
parting
shade
?
While
on
her
bier
the
sister
Graces
mourn
,
And
weeping
Tragedy
bedews
her
urn
?
While
Comedy
her
chearful
vein
foregoes
,
And
learns
to
melt
with
unaccustom'd
woes
?
Accept
(
O
once
admir'd
)
these
artless
lays
;
Accept
this
mite
of
tributary
praise
.
Oh
!
could
I
paint
thee
with
a
master's
hand
,
And
give
thee
all
thy
merits
could
demand
;
These
lines
should
glow
with
true
poetic
flame
,
Bright
as
thy
eyes
,
and
faultless
as
thy
frame
!
We
mourn'd
thy
absence
,
from
our
scene
retir'd
,
Each
longing
heart
again
thy
charms
desir'd
.
Yet
still
,
alas
!
we
hop'd
again
to
view
Our
wish
,
our
pleasure
,
every
joy
in
you
!
Again
thy
looks
might
grace
the
tragic
rage
;
Again
thy
spirit
fill
the
comic
stage
.
But
lo
!
Disease
hangs
hovering
o'er
thy
head
;
Dire
Danger
stalks
around
thy
frighted
bed
!
Those
starry
eyes
have
lost
each
beamy
ray
,
And
ghastly
Sickness
makes
the
fair
her
prey
!
Death
shuts
the
scene
!
—
and
all
our
hopes
are
o'er
!
Those
beauties
now
must
glad
the
sight
no
more
!
Say
ye
,
whose
features
youthful
lustre
bloom
,
Whose
lips
exhale
Arabia's
soft
perfume
,
Must
every
gift
in
silent
dust
be
lost
,
No
more
the
wish
of
man
,
or
female
boast
?
Ah
me
!
with
time
must
every
grace
be
fled
!
She
once
the
pride
of
all
our
stage
,
is
dead
!
Clos'd
are
those
eyes
that
every
bosom
fir'd
!
Pale
are
those
charms
that
every
heart
inspir'd
!
Where
now
the
mien
with
majesty
endu'd
,
Which
oft
surpriz'd
a
ravish'd
audience
view'd
?
What
forms
too
oft
the
tragic
scene
disgrace
?
What
tasteless
airs
the
comic
scene
deface
?
Tho'
tuneful
Cibber
still
the
Muse
sustains
,
By
nature
fram'd
to
pour
the
moving
strains
,
Tho'
from
her
eye
each
heart-felt
passion
breaks
,
And
more
than
music
warbles
when
she
speaks
:
When
shall
we
view
again
,
like
thine
,
conjoin'd
,
A
form
angelic
,
and
a
piercing
mind
?
Alike
in
every
mimic
scene
to
steer
,
The
gay
,
the
grave
,
the
lively
,
and
severe
.
Thy
judgment
saw
,
thy
taste
each
beauty
caught
,
No
senseless
parrot
of
the
poet's
thought
!
Thy
bosom
well
cou'd
heave
with
fancy'd
woe
,
And
,
from
thy
own
,
our
tears
were
taught
to
flow
.
Whene'er
we
view'd
the
Roman's
sullied
same
,
Thy
beauty
justify'd
the
hero's
shame
.
What
heart
but
then
must
Anthony
approve
,
And
own
the
world
was
nobly
lost
for
love
?
What
ears
could
hear
in
vain
thy
cause
implor'd
,
When
soothing
arts
appeas'd
thy
angry
lord
?
Each
tender
breast
the
rough
Ventidius
blam'd
,
And
Egypt
gain'd
the
sigh
Octavia
claim'd
,
Thy
eloquence
each
hush'd
attention
drew
,
While
Love
usurp'd
the
tears
to
Virtue
due
.
See
!
Phaedra
rise
majestic
o'er
the
scene
,
What
raging
pangs
distract
the
hapless
Queen
!
How
does
thy
sense
the
poet's
thought
refine
,
Beam
thro'
each
word
,
and
brighten
every
line
!
What
nerve
,
what
vigour
glows
in
every
part
,
While
classic
lays
appear
with
classic
art
!
Who
now
can
bid
the
proud
Roxana
rise
,
With
love
and
anger
sparkling
in
her
eyes
?
Who
now
shall
bid
her
breast
in
fury
glow
,
With
all
the
semblance
of
imperial
woe
?
While
the
big
passion
,
raging
in
her
veins
,
Would
hold
the
master
of
the
world
in
chains
:
But
Alexander
now
forsakes
our
coast
:
—
And
,
ah
!
Roxana
is
for
ever
lost
!
Nor
less
thy
power
when
rigid
Virtue
fir'd
The
chaster
bard
,
and
purer
thoughts
inspir'd
:
What
kneeling
form
appears
with
stedfast
eyes
,
Her
bosom
heaving
with
Devotion's
sighs
!
Tis
she
!
In
thee
we
own
the
mournful
scene
,
The
fair
resemblance
of
a
martyr
Lady
Jane
Grey
,
Act
V.
queen
!
Here
Guido's
skill
might
mark
thy
speaking
frame
,
And
catch
from
thee
the
painter's
magic
flame
!
Blest
in
each
art
!
by
nature
form'd
to
please
,
With
beauty
,
sense
,
with
elegance
and
ease
!
Whose
piercing
genius
study'd
all
mankind
,
All
Shakespear
opening
to
thy
vigorous
mind
.
In
every
scene
of
comic
humour
known
;
In
sprightly
sallies
wit
was
all
thy
own
.
Whether
you
seem'd
the
cit's
more
humble
wife
;
Or
shone
in
Townly's
higher
sphere
of
life
;
Alike
thy
spirit
knew
each
turn
of
wit
;
And
gave
new
force
to
all
the
poet
writ
.
Nor
was
thy
worth
to
public
scenes
confin'd
,
Thou
knew'st
the
noblest
feelings
of
the
mind
.
Thy
ears
were
ever
open
to
distress
;
Thy
ready
hand
was
ever
stretch'd
to
bless
.
The
breast
humane
for
each
unhappy
felt
;
Thy
heart
for
other's
sorrows
prone
to
melt
.
In
vain
did
Envy
point
her
scorpion
sting
;
In
vain
did
Malice
shake
her
blasting
wing
:
Each
generous
breast
disdain'd
th'
unpleasing
tale
,
And
cast
o'er
every
fault
Oblivion's
veil
:
Confess'd
,
thro'
every
cloud
,
thy
deeds
to
shine
,
And
own'd
the
virtues
of
Compassion
thine
!
Saw
mild
Benevolence
her
wand
disclose
,
And
touch
thy
heart
at
every
sufferer's
woes
:
Saw
meek-ey'd
Charity
thy
steps
attend
,
And
guide
thy
hand
the
wretched
to
befriend
:
Go
,
ask
the
breast
that
teems
with
mournful
sighs
,
Who
wip'd
the
sorrows
from
Affliction's
eyes
:
Go
,
ask
the
wretch
,
in
want
and
sickness
laid
,
Whose
goodness
brighten'd
once
Misfortune's
shade
.
O
!
snatch
me
hence
to
lone
sequester'd
scenes
,
To
arching
grottoes
and
embowering
greens
!
Where
scarce
a
ray
can
pierce
the
dusky
shade
,
Where
scarce
a
footstep
marks
the
dewy
glade
:
Where
pale-hu'd
Grief
her
secret
dwelling
keeps
;
Where
the
chill
blood
with
lazy
horror
creeps
:
Where
awful
Silence
spreads
her
noiseless
wing
;
And
Sorrow's
harp
may
tune
the
dismal
string
.
—
Or
rather
lead
my
steps
to
distant
plains
,
Where
closing
earth
enfolds
her
last
remains
;
What
time
the
moon
displays
her
silver
beam
,
And
groves
and
floods
reflect
the
milder
gleam
:
When
Contemplation
broods
with
thought
profound
,
And
fairy
visions
haunt
the
sylvan
ground
.
Lo
!
Fancy
now
,
on
airy
pinions
spread
,
With
scenes
ideal
hovers
o'er
my
head
.
I
see
!
I
see
!
more
pleasing
themes
arise
:
What
mystic
shadows
flit
before
my
eyes
!
Imagination
paints
the
sacred
grove
,
The
place
devote
to
poesy
and
love
.
Here
grateful
poets
hail
the
actors'
name
,
And
pay
the
rightful
tribute
to
their
fame
:
Around
their
tomb
in
generous
sorrow
mourn
,
And
twine
the
laurels
o'er
the
favour'd
urn
.
Methinks
I
view
the
last
sepulchral
frame
,
That
bears
inscrib'd
her
much
lamented
name
,
See
!
to
my
view
the
Drama's
sons
display'd
:
What
laurell'd
phantoms
croud
the
awful
shade
!
First
of
the
choir
immortal
Shakespear
stands
,
Whose
searching
eye
all
Nature's
scene
commands
:
Bright
in
his
look
celestial
spirit
blooms
,
And
Genius
o'er
him
waves
his
eagle
plumes
!
Next
tender
Southern
,
skill'd
the
soul
to
move
;
And
gentle
Rowe
,
who
tunes
the
breast
to
love
.
The
witty
Congreve
near
with
sprightly
mien
;
And
easy
Farquhar
with
his
lighter
scene
.
A
numerous
train
of
bards
the
shrine
surround
,
In
tragic
strains
and
comic
lore
renown'd
.
See
!
on
the
tomb
yon
pensive
form
appear
,
Heave
the
full
sigh
,
and
drop
the
frequent
tear
:
The
garments
loose
her
throbbing
bosom
show
;
Dispers'd
in
air
her
careless
tresses
flow
:
Round
her
pale
brows
a
myrtle
wreath
is
spread
,
A
gloomy
cypress
nods
above
her
head
.
See
!
while
her
hand
a
solemn
lyre
sustains
,
Her
trembling
fingers
wake
the
languid
strains
:
Soft
to
the
touch
the
vocal
strings
reply
,
And
tune
the
notes
to
answer
every
sigh
.
She
,
(
child
of
Grief
!
)
at
human
misery
weeps
;
At
every
death
her
dismal
vigil
keeps
.
But
chief
she
mourns
,
when
Fate's
relentless
doom
Gives
Wit
and
Beauty
victims
to
the
tomb
,
Her
lays
their
merits
and
their
loss
proclaim
,
(
A
mournful
task
!
)
and
Elegy
her
name
!
Now
bending
o'er
the
pile
she
vents
her
moan
,
And
pours
these
sorrows
o'er
the
senseless
stone
.
Ah
!
lost
,
for
ever
lost
!
the
breath
that
warm'd
,
The
wit
that
ravish'd
,
and
the
mien
that
charm'd
!
Here
sleeps
beneath
,
the
fairest
of
the
fair
,
The
Graces'
darling
,
and
the
Muses'
care
!
Who
once
could
fix
a
thousand
gazers
eyes
,
Now
cold
and
lifeless
unregarded
lies
!
Who
once
the
soul
in
bonds
of
love
detain'd
,
Now
lies
,
alas
!
in
stronger
bonds
restrain'd
.
Pale
Death
has
risled
all
her
pleasing
store
,
And
Nature
loaths
a
sorm
so
lov'd
before
!
Is
there
a
fair
whose
features
point
the
dart
,
Charm
the
six'd
eye
,
and
fascinate
the
heart
?
Behold
what
soon
disarms
the
childish
sting
,
And
plucks
the
wanton
plume
from
Cupid's
wing
!
Then
boast
no
longer
Wit's
fallacious
store
;
The
sweets
of
sprightly
Converse
boast
no
more
:
Those
lips
so
fram'd
to
each
persuasive
art
,
No
more
shall
touch
the
ear
,
and
win
the
heart
!
Let
Beauty
here
her
transient
blessing
weigh
,
Let
humbled
Wit
her
pitying
tribute
pay
:
Let
Female
Grace
vouchsafe
the
kindly
tear
:
Wit
,
Grace
,
and
Beauty
,
once
were
center'd
here
!
Ye
sacred
Bards
,
who
tun'd
the
drama's
lays
,
Here
pay
your
incense
of
distinguish'd
praise
!
She
gave
your
scenes
with
every
grace
to
shine
:
She
gave
new
feeling
to
the
nervous
line
;
Her
beauties
well
supply'd
each
tragic
lore
,
And
shew'd
those
charms
your
Muse
but
feign'd
before
!
Here
round
her
shrine
your
votive
wreaths
bestow
,
Around
her
shrine
eternal
greens
shall
grow
.
The
listning
groves
shall
learn
her
name
to
sing
,
And
zephyrs
wast
it
on
their
downy
wing
;
Till
every
shade
these
doleful
sounds
return
,
And
every
gale
in
sullen
dirges
mourn
!
The
mourner
ends
with
sighs
;
her
hand
she
rears
,
And
with
her
vesture
dries
the
gushing
tears
.
Behold
each
Bard
the
soft
contagion
feels
;
From
every
eye
the
trickling
sorrow
steals
.
See
!
Nature's
son
lament
her
hapless
doom
,
See
!
Shakespear
bending
o'er
his
favourite's
tomb
.
Each
shadowy
form
declines
his
awful
head
,
And
scatters
roses
on
the
funeral
bed
.
In
slow
procession
round
the
shrine
they
move
,
And
chant
her
praises
thro'
the
tuneful
grove
.
Farewel
the
glory
of
a
wondering
age
,
The
second
Oldfield
of
a
sinking
stage
!
Farewel
the
boast
and
envy
of
thy
kind
,
A
female
softness
,
and
a
manly
mind
!
Long
as
the
Muses
can
record
thy
praise
,
Thy
fame
shall
last
to
far
succeeding
days
:
While
wit
survives
,
thy
name
shall
ever
bloom
,
And
wreaths
unfading
flourish
round
thy
tomb
!
While
,
thus
I
tune
the
plaintive
notes
in
vain
,
For
her
,
whose
worth
demands
a
nobler
strain
;
Lo
!
to
my
thought
some
warning
Genius
cries
:
Attempt
not
,
swain
,
beyond
thy
flight
to
rise
.
Shall
thy
weak
skill
attempt
to
raise
our
woes
,
Or
paint
a
loss
that
every
bosom
knows
?
'Tis
not
thy
lays
can
teach
us
tears
to
shed
;
What
eye
refrains
!
—
for
Woffington
is
dead
!