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I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my
own just above the others; because in read more
I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my
own just above the others; because in it I recognize the union
and culmination of my own. To me it seems as if when God
conceived the world, that was Poetry; He formed it, and that was
Sculpture; He colored it, and that was Painting; He peopled it
with living beings, and that was the grand, divine, eternal
Drama.
My only regret in the theatre is that I could never sit out front
and watch me.
My only regret in the theatre is that I could never sit out front
and watch me.
Your scene precariously subsists too long,
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; read more
Your scene precariously subsists too long,
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage.
If you took acting away from me, I'd stop breathing.
If you took acting away from me, I'd stop breathing.
Acting is about giving something away, handing yourself over to whatever role you are asked to play. I'm not hiding read more
Acting is about giving something away, handing yourself over to whatever role you are asked to play. I'm not hiding or escaping or seeking anonymity. I reserve the right not to have a rubber stamp on my forehead saying this is who I am. Because who I am gets in the way of people looking innocently at the parts I play.
Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks;
Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks.
The founder's read more
Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks;
Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks.
The founder's you: the table is the place:
The carvers we: the prologue is the grace.
Each act, a course, each scene, a different dish,
Though we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for flesh.
Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp and rough.
Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepperproof?
Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true
Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew.
Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join.
Are butcher's meat, a battle's sirloin:
Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft and chaste,
Are water-gruel without salt or taste.
Who teach the mind its proper face to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man.
Who teach the mind its proper face to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man.
