The Splendid Shilling.

Luna.Orbis, O Orbis!Come to me, thou little rogue, Orbis.Enter theEarth.Orb.Who calls Terra-firma, pray?[59]Luna.Luna, that ne'er shines by day.Orb.What means Luna in a veil?Luna.Luna means to show her tail.Bayes.There's the bargain.EnterSol,to the tune of"Robin Hood."Sol.Fie, sister, fie; thou makest me muse,Derry down, derry down,To see thee Orb abuse.Luna.I hope his anger 'twill not move;Since I show'd it out of love.Hey down, derry down.Orb.Where shall I thy true love know,Thou pretty, pretty moon?Luna.To-morrow soon, ere it be noon,On Mount Vesuvio.[60]Sol.Then I will shine[To the tune of"Trenchmore."Bis.Orb.And I will be fine.Luna.And I will drink nothing but Lippara wine.[61]Omnes.And we, &c.[As they dance the hey,Bayesspeaks.

Luna.Orbis, O Orbis!Come to me, thou little rogue, Orbis.

Luna.Orbis, O Orbis!

Come to me, thou little rogue, Orbis.

Enter theEarth.

Orb.Who calls Terra-firma, pray?[59]

Luna.Luna, that ne'er shines by day.

Orb.What means Luna in a veil?

Luna.Luna means to show her tail.

Bayes.There's the bargain.

EnterSol,to the tune of"Robin Hood."

Sol.Fie, sister, fie; thou makest me muse,Derry down, derry down,To see thee Orb abuse.

Sol.Fie, sister, fie; thou makest me muse,

Derry down, derry down,

To see thee Orb abuse.

Luna.I hope his anger 'twill not move;Since I show'd it out of love.Hey down, derry down.

Luna.I hope his anger 'twill not move;

Since I show'd it out of love.

Hey down, derry down.

Orb.Where shall I thy true love know,Thou pretty, pretty moon?

Orb.Where shall I thy true love know,

Thou pretty, pretty moon?

Luna.To-morrow soon, ere it be noon,On Mount Vesuvio.[60]

Luna.To-morrow soon, ere it be noon,

On Mount Vesuvio.[60]

Sol.Then I will shine[To the tune of"Trenchmore."Bis.

Orb.And I will be fine.

Luna.And I will drink nothing but Lippara wine.[61]

Omnes.And we, &c.[As they dance the hey,Bayesspeaks.

Bayes.Now the earth's before the moon: now the moon's before the sun: there's the eclipse again.Smith.He's mightily taken with this, I see.Johns.Ay, 'tis so extraordinary, how can he choose?Bayes.So, now, vanish eclipse, and enter t'other battle, and fight. Here now, if I am not mistaken, you will see fighting enough.[A battle is fought between foot and great hobby-horses. At last,Drawcansircomes in and kills them all on both sides. All the while the battle is fighting,Bayesis telling them when to shout,and shouts with 'em.

Bayes.Now the earth's before the moon: now the moon's before the sun: there's the eclipse again.

Smith.He's mightily taken with this, I see.

Johns.Ay, 'tis so extraordinary, how can he choose?

Bayes.So, now, vanish eclipse, and enter t'other battle, and fight. Here now, if I am not mistaken, you will see fighting enough.

[A battle is fought between foot and great hobby-horses. At last,Drawcansircomes in and kills them all on both sides. All the while the battle is fighting,Bayesis telling them when to shout,and shouts with 'em.

Draw.Others may boast a single man to kill;But I the blood of thousands daily spill.Let petty kings the names of parties know:Where'er I come, I slay both friend and foe.The swiftest horse-men my swift rage controls,And from their bodies drives their trembling souls.If they had wings, and to the gods could fly,I would pursue and beat 'em through the sky;And make proud Jove, with all his thunder, seeThis single arm more dreadful is than he.[Exit.

Draw.Others may boast a single man to kill;

But I the blood of thousands daily spill.

Let petty kings the names of parties know:

Where'er I come, I slay both friend and foe.

The swiftest horse-men my swift rage controls,

And from their bodies drives their trembling souls.

If they had wings, and to the gods could fly,

I would pursue and beat 'em through the sky;

And make proud Jove, with all his thunder, see

This single arm more dreadful is than he.[Exit.

Bayes.There's a brave fellow for you now, sirs. You may talk of your Hectors, and Achilles's, and I know not who; but I defy all your histories, and your romances too, to show me one such conqueror, as this Drawcansir.Johns.I swear, I think you may.Smith.But, Mr. Bayes, how shall all these dead men go off? for I see none alive to help 'em.Bayes.Go off! why, as they came on, upon their legs: how should they go off? Why, do you think the people here don't know they are not dead? he is mighty ignorant, poor man: yourfriend here is very silly, Mr. Johnson; egad, he is. Ha, ha, ha! Come, sir, I'll show you how they shall go off. Rise, rise, sirs, and go about your business.[62]There's go off for you now; ha, ha, ha! Mr. Ivory, a word. Gentlemen, I'll be with you presently.[Exit.Johns.Will you so? Then we'll be gone.Smith.Ay, prithee let's go, that we may preserve our hearing.One battle more will take mine quite away.[Exeunt.EnterBayesandPlayers.Bayes.Where are the gentlemen?1st Play.They are gone, sir.Bayes.Gone! 'sdeath, this act is best of all. I'll go fetch 'em again.[Exit.1st Play.What shall we do, now he is gone away?2nd Play.Why, so much the better; then let's go to dinner.3rd Play.Stay, here's a foul piece of paper. Let's see what 'tis.3rd or 4th Play.Ay, ay, come, let's hear it.[Reads. The argument of the fifth act.3rd Play."Cloris, at length, being sensible of Prince Prettyman's passion, consents to marry him; but just as they are going to church, Prince Prettyman meeting, by chance, with old Joan, the chandler's widow, and remembering it was she that first brought him acquainted with Cloris; out of a high point of honour, breaks off his match with Cloris, and marries old Joan. Upon which, Cloris, in despair, drowns herself; and Prince Prettyman, discontentedly, walks by the river-side."——This will never do: 'tis just like the rest. Come, let's be gone.Most of the Players.Ay, plague on't, let's go away.[Exeunt.EnterBayes.Bayes.A plague on 'em both for me! they have made me sweat, to run after 'em. A couple of senseless rascals, that had rather go to dinner, than see this play out, with a plague to 'em. What comfort has a man to write for such dull rogues! Come, Mr.—a—where are you, sir? Come away, quick, quick.EnterStage-keeper.Stage-keep.Sir: they are gone to dinner.Bayes.Yes, I know the gentlemen are gone; but I ask for the players.Stage-keep.Why, an't please your worship, sir, the players are gone to dinner too.Bayes.How! are the players gone to dinner? 'tis impossible: the players gone to dinner! egad, if they are, I'll make 'em know what it is to injure a person that does them the honour to write for 'em, and all that. A company of proud, conceited, humorous, cross-grain'd persons, and all that. Egad, I'll make 'em the most contemptible, despicable, inconsiderable persons, and all that, in the whole world, for this trick. Egad, I'll be revenged on 'em; I'll sell this play to the other house.Stage-keep.Nay, good sir, don't take away the book; you'll disappoint the company that comes to see it acted here this afternoon.Bayes.That's all one, I must reserve this comfort to myself, my play and I shall go together; we will not part, indeed, sir.Stage-keep.But what will the town say, sir?Bayes.The town! why, what care I for the town? Egad, the town has us'd me as scurvily as the players have done: but I'll be reveng'd on them too; for I'll lampoon 'em all. And since they will not admit of my plays, they shall know what a satirist I am. And so farewell to this stage, egad, for ever.[ExitBayes.EnterPlayers.1st Play.Come, then, let's set up bills for another play.2nd Play.Ay, ay; we shall lose nothing by this, I warrant you.1st Play.I am of your opinion. But before we go, let's see Haynes and Shirley practise the last dance; for that may serve us another time.2nd Play.I'll call 'em in: I think they are but in the tyring-room.[The dance done.]1st Play.Come, come; let's go away to dinner.[Exeunt omnes.

Johns.I swear, I think you may.

Smith.But, Mr. Bayes, how shall all these dead men go off? for I see none alive to help 'em.

Bayes.Go off! why, as they came on, upon their legs: how should they go off? Why, do you think the people here don't know they are not dead? he is mighty ignorant, poor man: yourfriend here is very silly, Mr. Johnson; egad, he is. Ha, ha, ha! Come, sir, I'll show you how they shall go off. Rise, rise, sirs, and go about your business.[62]There's go off for you now; ha, ha, ha! Mr. Ivory, a word. Gentlemen, I'll be with you presently.[Exit.

Johns.Will you so? Then we'll be gone.

Smith.Ay, prithee let's go, that we may preserve our hearing.One battle more will take mine quite away.[Exeunt.

EnterBayesandPlayers.

Bayes.Where are the gentlemen?

1st Play.They are gone, sir.

Bayes.Gone! 'sdeath, this act is best of all. I'll go fetch 'em again.[Exit.

1st Play.What shall we do, now he is gone away?

2nd Play.Why, so much the better; then let's go to dinner.

3rd Play.Stay, here's a foul piece of paper. Let's see what 'tis.

3rd or 4th Play.Ay, ay, come, let's hear it.[Reads. The argument of the fifth act.

3rd Play."Cloris, at length, being sensible of Prince Prettyman's passion, consents to marry him; but just as they are going to church, Prince Prettyman meeting, by chance, with old Joan, the chandler's widow, and remembering it was she that first brought him acquainted with Cloris; out of a high point of honour, breaks off his match with Cloris, and marries old Joan. Upon which, Cloris, in despair, drowns herself; and Prince Prettyman, discontentedly, walks by the river-side."——This will never do: 'tis just like the rest. Come, let's be gone.

Most of the Players.Ay, plague on't, let's go away.[Exeunt.

EnterBayes.

Bayes.A plague on 'em both for me! they have made me sweat, to run after 'em. A couple of senseless rascals, that had rather go to dinner, than see this play out, with a plague to 'em. What comfort has a man to write for such dull rogues! Come, Mr.—a—where are you, sir? Come away, quick, quick.

EnterStage-keeper.

Stage-keep.Sir: they are gone to dinner.

Bayes.Yes, I know the gentlemen are gone; but I ask for the players.

Stage-keep.Why, an't please your worship, sir, the players are gone to dinner too.

Bayes.How! are the players gone to dinner? 'tis impossible: the players gone to dinner! egad, if they are, I'll make 'em know what it is to injure a person that does them the honour to write for 'em, and all that. A company of proud, conceited, humorous, cross-grain'd persons, and all that. Egad, I'll make 'em the most contemptible, despicable, inconsiderable persons, and all that, in the whole world, for this trick. Egad, I'll be revenged on 'em; I'll sell this play to the other house.

Stage-keep.Nay, good sir, don't take away the book; you'll disappoint the company that comes to see it acted here this afternoon.

Bayes.That's all one, I must reserve this comfort to myself, my play and I shall go together; we will not part, indeed, sir.

Stage-keep.But what will the town say, sir?

Bayes.The town! why, what care I for the town? Egad, the town has us'd me as scurvily as the players have done: but I'll be reveng'd on them too; for I'll lampoon 'em all. And since they will not admit of my plays, they shall know what a satirist I am. And so farewell to this stage, egad, for ever.[ExitBayes.

EnterPlayers.

1st Play.Come, then, let's set up bills for another play.

2nd Play.Ay, ay; we shall lose nothing by this, I warrant you.

1st Play.I am of your opinion. But before we go, let's see Haynes and Shirley practise the last dance; for that may serve us another time.

2nd Play.I'll call 'em in: I think they are but in the tyring-room.[The dance done.]

1st Play.Come, come; let's go away to dinner.[Exeunt omnes.

The play is at an end, but where's the plot?That circumstance our poet Bayes forgot.And we can boast, tho' 'tis a plotting age,No place is freer from it than the stage.The ancients plotted, tho', and strove to pleaseWith sense that might be understood with ease;They every scene with so much wit did store,That who brought any in, went out with more.But this new way of wit does so surprise,Men lose their wits in wond'ring where it lies.If it be true, that monstrous births presageThe following mischiefs that afflict the age,And sad disasters to the state proclaim;Plays without head or tail may do the same.Wherefore for ours, and for the kingdom's peace,May this prodigious way of writing cease.Let's have at least, once in our lives, a timeWhen we may hear some reason, not all rhyme.We have this ten years felt its influence;Pray let this prove a year of prose and sense.

The play is at an end, but where's the plot?

That circumstance our poet Bayes forgot.

And we can boast, tho' 'tis a plotting age,

No place is freer from it than the stage.

The ancients plotted, tho', and strove to please

With sense that might be understood with ease;

They every scene with so much wit did store,

That who brought any in, went out with more.

But this new way of wit does so surprise,

Men lose their wits in wond'ring where it lies.

If it be true, that monstrous births presage

The following mischiefs that afflict the age,

And sad disasters to the state proclaim;

Plays without head or tail may do the same.

Wherefore for ours, and for the kingdom's peace,

May this prodigious way of writing cease.

Let's have at least, once in our lives, a time

When we may hear some reason, not all rhyme.

We have this ten years felt its influence;

Pray let this prove a year of prose and sense.

——♦——

"Sing, heavenly Muse,Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire."

"Sing, heavenly Muse,

Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,

A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire."

Happy the man, who void of cares and strife,In silken, or in leathern purse retainsA Splendid Shilling. He nor hears with painNew oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale;But with his friends when nightly mists arise,To Juniper's Magpye, or Town Hall[63]repairs:Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eyeTransfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames,Cloe, or Philips, he each circling glassWisheth her health, and joy, and equal love.Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale,Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint.But I, whom griping penury surrounds,And hunger, sure attendant upon want,With scanty offals, and small acid tiff,Wretched repast! my meagre corps sustain:Then solitary walk, or doze at homeIn garret vile, and with a warming puffRegale chill'd fingers; or from tube as blackAs winter-chimney, or well polish'd jet,Exhale Mundungus, ill perfuming scent:Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter sizeSmokes Cambro-Briton, vers'd in pedigree,Sprung from Cadwalador and Arthur, kingsFull famous in romantic tale, when heO'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese,High over-shadowing rides, with a designTo vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart,Or Maridunum, or the ancient townYcleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's streamEncircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!Whence flows nectareous wine, that well may vieWith Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern.Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flowWith looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun,Horrible monster! hated by gods and men,To my aërial citadel ascends.With vocal heel, thrice thund'ring at my gate,With hideous accent thrice he calls; I knowThe voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd,Confounded to the dark recess I flyOf woodhole; straight my bristling hairs erectThro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedewsMy shudd'ring limbs, and, wonderful to tell!My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;So horrible he seems! his faded browEntrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints,Disastrous acts forebode. In his right handLong scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,With characters and figures dire inscrib'd,Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods avertSuch plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalksAnother monster not unlike himself,Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'dA Catchpole, whose polluted hands the godsWith force incredible and magic charmsFirst have endu'd: if he his ample palmShould haply on ill-fated shoulder layOf debtor, straight his body, to the touchObsequious as whilom knights were wont,To some enchanted castle is convey'd,Where gates impregnable, and coercive chainsIn durance strict detain him till, in formOf money, Pallas sets the captive free.Beware, ye debtors, when ye walk, beware!Be circumspect; oft with insidious kenThis caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oftLies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretchWith his unhallow'd touch. So, poets sing,Grimalkin to domestic vermin swornAn everlasting foe, with watchful eyeLies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless miceSure ruin. So her disembowell'd webArachne in a hall, or kitchen, spreads,Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret standsWithin her woven cell; the humming prey,Regardless of their fate, rush on the toilsInextricable, nor will aught availTheir arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue;The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,And butterfly proud of expanded wingsDistinct with gold, entangled in her snares,Useless resistance make: with eager strides,She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils;Then, with envenom'd jaws the vital bloodDrinks of reluctant foes, and to her caveTheir bulky carcasses triumphant drags.So pass my days. But when nocturnal shadesThis world envelop, and th' inclement airPersuades men to repel benumbing frostsWith pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood;Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering lightOf make-weight candle, nor the joyous talkOf loving friend delights; distress'd, forlorn,Amidst the horrors of the tedious night,Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughtsMy anxious mind, or sometimes mournful verseIndite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades,Or desp'rate lady near a purling stream,Or lover pendant on a willow-tree.Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought,And restless wish, and rave, my parchéd throatFinds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose:But if a slumber haply does invadeMy weary limbs, my fancy's still awake,Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,Tipples imaginary pots of ale,In vain; awake I find the settled thirstStill gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd,Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial raysMature, John Apple, nor the downy Peach,Nor Walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure,Nor Medlar fruit delicious in decay:Afflictions great! yet greater still remains.My Galligaskins that have long withstoodThe winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,By time subdu'd, what will not time subdue!An horrid chasm disclos'd with orificeWide, discontinuous; at which the windsEurus and Auster, and the dreadful forceOf Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves,Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts,Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship,Long sail'd secure, or thro' th' Ægean deep,Or the Ionian, till cruising nearThe Lilybean shore, with hideous crushOn Scylla, or Charybdis, dang'rous rocks!She strikes rebounding, whence the shatter'd oak,So fierce a shock unable to withstand,Admits the sea; in at the gaping sideThe crowding waves gush with impetuous rage,Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seizeThe mariners, death in their eyes appears,They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray;Vain efforts! still the batt'ring waves rush in,Implacable, till delug'd by the foam,The ship sinks found'ring in the vast abyss.

Happy the man, who void of cares and strife,

In silken, or in leathern purse retains

A Splendid Shilling. He nor hears with pain

New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale;

But with his friends when nightly mists arise,

To Juniper's Magpye, or Town Hall[63]repairs:

Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye

Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames,

Cloe, or Philips, he each circling glass

Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love.

Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale,

Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint.

But I, whom griping penury surrounds,

And hunger, sure attendant upon want,

With scanty offals, and small acid tiff,

Wretched repast! my meagre corps sustain:

Then solitary walk, or doze at home

In garret vile, and with a warming puff

Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black

As winter-chimney, or well polish'd jet,

Exhale Mundungus, ill perfuming scent:

Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size

Smokes Cambro-Briton, vers'd in pedigree,

Sprung from Cadwalador and Arthur, kings

Full famous in romantic tale, when he

O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,

Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese,

High over-shadowing rides, with a design

To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart,

Or Maridunum, or the ancient town

Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream

Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!

Whence flows nectareous wine, that well may vie

With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern.

Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow

With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun,

Horrible monster! hated by gods and men,

To my aërial citadel ascends.

With vocal heel, thrice thund'ring at my gate,

With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know

The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.

What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd,

Confounded to the dark recess I fly

Of woodhole; straight my bristling hairs erect

Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews

My shudd'ring limbs, and, wonderful to tell!

My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;

So horrible he seems! his faded brow

Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,

And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints,

Disastrous acts forebode. In his right hand

Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,

With characters and figures dire inscrib'd,

Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods avert

Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks

Another monster not unlike himself,

Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd

A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods

With force incredible and magic charms

First have endu'd: if he his ample palm

Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay

Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch

Obsequious as whilom knights were wont,

To some enchanted castle is convey'd,

Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains

In durance strict detain him till, in form

Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware, ye debtors, when ye walk, beware!

Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken

This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft

Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,

Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch

With his unhallow'd touch. So, poets sing,

Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn

An everlasting foe, with watchful eye

Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,

Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice

Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web

Arachne in a hall, or kitchen, spreads,

Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands

Within her woven cell; the humming prey,

Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils

Inextricable, nor will aught avail

Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue;

The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,

And butterfly proud of expanded wings

Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares,

Useless resistance make: with eager strides,

She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils;

Then, with envenom'd jaws the vital blood

Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave

Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.

So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades

This world envelop, and th' inclement air

Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts

With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood;

Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light

Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk

Of loving friend delights; distress'd, forlorn,

Amidst the horrors of the tedious night,

Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts

My anxious mind, or sometimes mournful verse

Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades,

Or desp'rate lady near a purling stream,

Or lover pendant on a willow-tree.

Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought,

And restless wish, and rave, my parchéd throat

Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose:

But if a slumber haply does invade

My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake,

Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,

Tipples imaginary pots of ale,

In vain; awake I find the settled thirst

Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd,

Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays

Mature, John Apple, nor the downy Peach,

Nor Walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure,

Nor Medlar fruit delicious in decay:

Afflictions great! yet greater still remains.

My Galligaskins that have long withstood

The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,

By time subdu'd, what will not time subdue!

An horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice

Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds

Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force

Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves,

Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts,

Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship,

Long sail'd secure, or thro' th' Ægean deep,

Or the Ionian, till cruising near

The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush

On Scylla, or Charybdis, dang'rous rocks!

She strikes rebounding, whence the shatter'd oak,

So fierce a shock unable to withstand,

Admits the sea; in at the gaping side

The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage,

Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize

The mariners, death in their eyes appears,

They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray;

Vain efforts! still the batt'ring waves rush in,

Implacable, till delug'd by the foam,

The ship sinks found'ring in the vast abyss.

By AMBROSE PHILIPS, Esq.,

From among those which suggested the next following Burlesque.

——♦——

To Miss Margaret Pulteney, Daughter of DanielPulteney, Esq., in the Nursery.April27, 1727.

Dimply damsel, sweetly smiling,All caressing, none beguiling,Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,Every charm to nature owing,This and that new thing admiring,Much of this and that enquiring,Knowledge by degrees attaining,Day by day some virtue gaining,Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,Beardless poets, fondly rhyming(Fescu'd now, perhaps, in spelling),On thy riper beauties dwelling,Shall accuse each killing featureOf the cruel, charming creature,Whom I knew complying, willing,Tender, and averse to killing.

Dimply damsel, sweetly smiling,

All caressing, none beguiling,

Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,

Every charm to nature owing,

This and that new thing admiring,

Much of this and that enquiring,

Knowledge by degrees attaining,

Day by day some virtue gaining,

Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,

Beardless poets, fondly rhyming

(Fescu'd now, perhaps, in spelling),

On thy riper beauties dwelling,

Shall accuse each killing feature

Of the cruel, charming creature,

Whom I knew complying, willing,

Tender, and averse to killing.

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's Arms.May1, 1724.

Timely blossom, infant fair,Fondling of a happy pair,Every morn, and every night,Their solicitous delight,Sleeping, waking, still at ease,Pleasing, without skill to please,Little gossip, blithe and hale,Tatling many a broken tale,Singing many a tuneless song,Lavish of a heedless tongue,Simple maiden, void of art,Babbling out the very heart,Yet abandon'd to thy will,Yet imagining no ill,Yet too innocent to blush,Like the linlet in the bush,To the mother-linnet's noteModuling her slender throat,Chirping forth thy petty joys,Wanton in the change of toys,Like the linnet green, in May,Flitting to each bloomy spray,Wearied then, and glad of rest,Like the linlet in the nest.This thy present happy lot,This, in time, will be forgot.Other pleasures, other cares,Ever-busy time prepares;And thou shalt in thy daughter see,This picture, once, resembled thee.

Timely blossom, infant fair,

Fondling of a happy pair,

Every morn, and every night,

Their solicitous delight,

Sleeping, waking, still at ease,

Pleasing, without skill to please,

Little gossip, blithe and hale,

Tatling many a broken tale,

Singing many a tuneless song,

Lavish of a heedless tongue,

Simple maiden, void of art,

Babbling out the very heart,

Yet abandon'd to thy will,

Yet imagining no ill,

Yet too innocent to blush,

Like the linlet in the bush,

To the mother-linnet's note

Moduling her slender throat,

Chirping forth thy petty joys,

Wanton in the change of toys,

Like the linnet green, in May,

Flitting to each bloomy spray,

Wearied then, and glad of rest,

Like the linlet in the nest.

This thy present happy lot,

This, in time, will be forgot.

Other pleasures, other cares,

Ever-busy time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see,

This picture, once, resembled thee.

OR, A PANEGYRIC ON THE NEW VERSIFICATION ADDRESSED TO A—— P——, ESQ.

"Nauty Pauty Jack-a-dandyStole a piece of sugar-candyFrom the Grocer's shoppy-shop,And away did hoppy-hop."

"Nauty Pauty Jack-a-dandy

Stole a piece of sugar-candy

From the Grocer's shoppy-shop,

And away did hoppy-hop."

All ye poets of the age,All ye witlings of the stage,Learn your jingles to reform:Crop your numbers, and conform:Let your little verses flowGently, sweetly, row by row.Let the verse the subject fit,Little subject, little wit.Namby Pamby is your guide,Albion's joy, Hibernia's pride.Namby Pamby Pilli-pis,Rhimy pim'd on missy-mis;Tartaretta TartareeFrom the navel to the knee;That her father's gracy-graceMight give him a placy-place.He no longer writes of mammyAndromache and her lammy,Hanging panging at the breastOf a matron most distrest.Now the venal poet singsBaby clouts, and baby things,Baby dolls and baby houses,Little misses, little spouses;Little playthings, little toys,Little girls, and little boys.As an actor does his part,So the nurses get by heartNamby Pamby's little rhymes,Little jingle, little chimes.Namby Pamby ne'er will dieWhile the nurse sings lullaby.Namby Pamby's doubly mild,Once a man, and twice a child;To his hanging-sleeves restor'd,Now he foots it like a lord;Now he pumps his little wits,All by little tiny bits.Now methinks I hear him say,Boys and girls, come out to play,Moon does shine as bright as day.Now my Namby Pamby's foundSitting on the Friar's ground,Picking silver, picking gold,Namby Pamby's never old.Bally-cally they begin,Namby Pamby still keeps in.Namby Pamby is no clown,London Bridge is broken down:Now he courts the gay ladee,Dancing o'er the Lady-lee:Now he sings of lick-spit liarBurning in the brimstone fire;Liar, liar, lick-spit, lick,Turn about the candle-stick.Now he sings of Jacky HornerSitting in the chimney corner,Eating of a Christmas pie,Putting in his thumb, oh, fie!Putting in, oh, fie! his thumb,Pulling out, oh, strange! a plum.Now he acts the Grenadier,Calling for a pot of beer.Where's his money? he's forgot,Get him gone, a drunken sot.Now on cock-horse does he ride;And anon on timber stride,See-and-saw and Sacch'ry down,London is a gallant town.Now he gathers riches inThicker, faster, pin by pin.Pins apiece to see his show,Boys and girls flock row by row;From their clothes the pins they take,Risk a whipping for his sake;From their frocks the pins they pull,To fill Namby's cushion full.So much wit at such an age,Does a genius great presage.Second childhood gone and past,Should he prove a man at last,What must second manhood be,In a child so bright as he!Guard him, ye poetic powers,Watch his minutes, watch his hours:Let your tuneful Nine inspire him,Let poetic fury fire him:Let the poets one and allTo his genius victims fall.

All ye poets of the age,

All ye witlings of the stage,

Learn your jingles to reform:

Crop your numbers, and conform:

Let your little verses flow

Gently, sweetly, row by row.

Let the verse the subject fit,

Little subject, little wit.

Namby Pamby is your guide,

Albion's joy, Hibernia's pride.

Namby Pamby Pilli-pis,

Rhimy pim'd on missy-mis;

Tartaretta Tartaree

From the navel to the knee;

That her father's gracy-grace

Might give him a placy-place.

He no longer writes of mammy

Andromache and her lammy,

Hanging panging at the breast

Of a matron most distrest.

Now the venal poet sings

Baby clouts, and baby things,

Baby dolls and baby houses,

Little misses, little spouses;

Little playthings, little toys,

Little girls, and little boys.

As an actor does his part,

So the nurses get by heart

Namby Pamby's little rhymes,

Little jingle, little chimes.

Namby Pamby ne'er will die

While the nurse sings lullaby.

Namby Pamby's doubly mild,

Once a man, and twice a child;

To his hanging-sleeves restor'd,

Now he foots it like a lord;

Now he pumps his little wits,

All by little tiny bits.

Now methinks I hear him say,

Boys and girls, come out to play,

Moon does shine as bright as day.

Now my Namby Pamby's found

Sitting on the Friar's ground,

Picking silver, picking gold,

Namby Pamby's never old.

Bally-cally they begin,

Namby Pamby still keeps in.

Namby Pamby is no clown,

London Bridge is broken down:

Now he courts the gay ladee,

Dancing o'er the Lady-lee:

Now he sings of lick-spit liar

Burning in the brimstone fire;

Liar, liar, lick-spit, lick,

Turn about the candle-stick.

Now he sings of Jacky Horner

Sitting in the chimney corner,

Eating of a Christmas pie,

Putting in his thumb, oh, fie!

Putting in, oh, fie! his thumb,

Pulling out, oh, strange! a plum.

Now he acts the Grenadier,

Calling for a pot of beer.

Where's his money? he's forgot,

Get him gone, a drunken sot.

Now on cock-horse does he ride;

And anon on timber stride,

See-and-saw and Sacch'ry down,

London is a gallant town.

Now he gathers riches in

Thicker, faster, pin by pin.

Pins apiece to see his show,

Boys and girls flock row by row;

From their clothes the pins they take,

Risk a whipping for his sake;

From their frocks the pins they pull,

To fill Namby's cushion full.

So much wit at such an age,

Does a genius great presage.

Second childhood gone and past,

Should he prove a man at last,

What must second manhood be,

In a child so bright as he!

Guard him, ye poetic powers,

Watch his minutes, watch his hours:

Let your tuneful Nine inspire him,

Let poetic fury fire him:

Let the poets one and all

To his genius victims fall.

From"A Learned Dissertation upon Dumpling,"

to which the preceding Poem was appended.

What is a tart, a pie, or a pasty, but meat or fruit enclos'd in a wall or covering of pudding? What is a cake, but a bak'd pudding; or a Christmas pie, but a minc'd-meat pudding? As for cheese-cakes, custards, tansies, &c., they are manifest puddings, and all of Sir John's own contrivance; custard being as old, if not older, than Magna Charta. In short, pudding is of the greatest dignity and antiquity; bread itself, which is the very staff of life, being, properly speaking, a bak'd wheat pudding.

To the satchel, which is the pudding-bag of ingenuity, we are indebted for the greatest men in church and state. All arts and sciences owe their original to pudding or dumpling. What is a bagpipe, the mother of all music, but a pudding of harmony?Or what is music itself, but a palatable cookery of sounds? To little puddings or bladders of colours we owe all the choice originals of the greatest painters. And indeed, what is painting, but a well-spread pudding, or cookery of colours?

The head of man is like a pudding. And whence have all rhymes, poems, plots, and inventions sprang, but from that same pudding? What is poetry, but a pudding of words? The physicians, tho' they cry out so much against cooks and cookery, yet are but cooks themselves; with this difference only, the cooks' pudding lengthens life, the physicians' shortens it. So that we live and die by pudding. For what is a clyster, but a bag-pudding? a pill, but a dumpling? or a bolus, but a tansy, tho' not altogether so toothsome? In a word: physic is only a puddingizing or cookery of drugs. The law is but a cookery of quibbles and contentions,[64]* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * is but a pudding of * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Some swallow everything whole and unmix'd; so that it may rather be call'd a heap than a pudding. Others are so squeamish, the greatest mastership in cookery is requir'd to make the pudding palatable. The suet which others gape and swallow by gobs, must for these puny stomachs be minced to atoms; the plums must be pick'd with the utmost care, and every ingredient proportion'd to the greatest nicety, or it will never go down.

The universe itself is but a pudding of elements. Empires, kingdoms, states and republics, are but puddings of people differently made up. The celestial and terrestrial orbs are decipher'd to us by a pair of globes or mathematical puddings.

The success of war and fate of monarchies are entirely dependent on puddings and dumplings. For what else are cannonballs but military puddings? or bullets, but dumplings; with this difference only, they do not sit so well on the stomach as a good marrow pudding or bread pudding.

In short, there is nothing valuable in art or nature, but what, more or less, has an allusion to pudding or dumpling. Why, then, should they be held in disesteem? Why should dumpling-eating be ridiculed, or dumpling-eaters derided? Is it not pleasant and profitable? Is it not ancient and honourable? Kings, princes, and potentates have in all ages been lovers of pudding. Is it not, therefore, of royal authority? Popes, cardinals, bishops, priests and deacons, have, time out of mind, been great pudding-eaters. Is it not, therefore, a holy and religious institution? Philosophers, poets, and learned men inall faculties, judges, privy councillors, and members of both houses, have, by their great regard to pudding, given a sanction to it that nothing can efface. Is it not, therefore, ancient, honourable, and commendable?

Quare itaque fremuerunt Auctores?

Why do, therefore, the enemies of good eating, the starveling authors of Grub Street, employ their impotent pens against pudding and pudding-headed,aliashonest men? Why do they inveigh against dumpling-eating, which is the life and soul of good-fellowship; and dumpling-eaters, who are the ornaments of civil society?

But, alas! their malice is their own punishment. The hireling author of a late scandalous libel, intituled, "The Dumpling-Eaters Downfall," may, if he has any eyes, now see his error, in attacking so numerous, so august, a body of people. His books remain unsold, unread, unregarded; while this treatise of mine shall be bought by all who love pudding or dumpling; to my bookseller's great joy, and my no small consolation. How shall I triumph, and how will that mercenary scribbler be mortified, when I have sold more editions of my books than he has copies of his? I, therefore, exhort all people, gentle and simple, men, women, and children, to buy, to read, to extol these labours of mine, for the honour of dumpling-eating. Let them not fear to defend every article; for I will bear them harmless. I have arguments good store, and can easily confute, either logically, theologically, or metaphysically, all those who dare oppose me.

Let not Englishmen, therefore, be ashamed of the name of Pudding-eaters; but, on the contrary, let it be their glory. For let foreigners cry out ne'er so much against good eating, they come easily into it when they have been a little while in our land of Canaan; and there are very few foreigners among us who have not learn'd to make as great a hole in a good pudding, or sirloin of beef, as the best Englishman of us all.

Why should we then be laughed out of pudding and dumpling? or why ridicul'd out of good living? Plots and politics may hurt us, but pudding cannot. Let us, therefore, adhere to pudding, and keep ourselves out of harm's way; according to the golden rule laid down by a celebrated dumpling-eater now defunct:

"Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says:Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong;But eat your pudding, fool, and hold your tongue."—Prior.

"Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says:

Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:

Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong;

But eat your pudding, fool, and hold your tongue."—Prior.

WITH THE ANNOTATIONS OF H. SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS.

FIRST ACTED IN 1730, AND ALTERED IN 1731.

——♦——

H. SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS, HIS PREFACE.

The town hath seldom been more divided in its opinion than concerning the merit of the following scenes. Whilst some publicly affirm that no author could produce so fine a piece but Mr. P——, others have with as much vehemence insisted that no one could write anything so bad but Mr. F——.

Nor can we wonder at this dissension about its merit, when the learned world have not unanimously decided even the very nature of this tragedy. For though most of the universities in Europe have honoured it with the name of "Egregium et maximi pretii opus, tragœdiis tam antiquis quàm novis longè anteponendum;" nay, Dr. B—— hath pronounced, "Citiùs Mævii Æneadem quàm Scribleri istius tragœdiam hanc crediderim, cujus autorem Senecam ipsum tradidisse haud dubitârim:" and the great Professor Burman hath styled Tom Thumb "Heroum omnium tragicorum facilè principem;" nay, though it hath, among other languages, been translated into Dutch, and celebrated with great applause at Amsterdam (where burlesque never came) by the title of Mynheer Vander Thumb, the burgomasters received it with that reverent and silent attention which becometh an audience at a deep tragedy. Notwithstanding all this, there have not been wanting some who have represented these scenes in a ludicrous light; and Mr. D—— hath been heard to say, with some concern, that he wondered a tragical and Christian nation would permit a representation on its theatre so visibly designed to ridicule and extirpate everything that is great and solemn among us.

This learned critic and his followers were led into so great an error by that surreptitious and piratical copy which stole last year into the world; with what injustice and prejudice to our author will be acknowledged, I hope, by every one who shall happily peruse this genuine and original copy. Nor can I help remarking, to the great praise of our author, that, however imperfect the former was, even that faint resemblance of the true Tom Thumb contained sufficient beauties to give it a run of upwards of forty nights to the politest audiences. But, notwithstanding that applause which it received from all the best judges, it was as severely censured by some few bad ones, and, I believe rather maliciously than ignorantly, reported to have been intended a burlesque on the loftiest parts of tragedy, and designed to banish what we generally call fine things from the stage.

Now, if I can set my country right in an affair of this importance, I shall lightly esteem any labour which it may cost. And this I the rather undertake, first, as it is indeed in some measure incumbent on me to vindicate myself from that surreptitious copy before mentioned, published by some ill-meaning people under my name; secondly, as knowing myself more capable of doing justice to our author than any other man, as I have given myself more pains to arrive at a thorough understanding of this little piece, having for ten years together read nothing else; in which time, I think, I may modestly presume, with the help of my English dictionary, to comprehend all the meanings of every word in it.

But should any error of my pen awaken Clariss. Bentleium to enlighten the world with his annotations on our author, I shall not think that the least reward or happiness arising to me from these my endeavours.

I shall waive at present what hath caused such feuds in the learned world, whether this piece was originally written by Shakespeare, though certainly that, were it true, must add a considerable share to its merit, especially with such who are so generous as to buy and commend what they never read, from an implicit faith in the author only: a faith which our age abounds in as much as it can be called deficient in any other.

Let it suffice, that "The Tragedy of Tragedies; or, The Life and Death of Tom Thumb," was written in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Nor can the objection made by Mr. D——, that the tragedy must then have been antecedent to the history, have any weight, when we consider that, though "The History of Tom Thumb" printed by and for Edward M—r, at the Looking-glass on London Bridge, be of a later date, still must we suppose this history to have been transcribed from some other, unless we suppose the writer thereof to be inspired: a gift very faintly contended for by the writers of our age. As to thishistory's not bearing the stamp of second, third, or fourth edition, I see but little in that objection; editions being very uncertain lights to judge of books by: and perhaps Mr. M—r may have joined twenty editions in one, as Mr. C—l hath ere now divided one into twenty.

Nor doth the other argument, drawn from the little care our author hath taken to keep up to the letter of this history, carry any greater force. Are there not instances of plays wherein the history is so perverted, that we can know the heroes whom they celebrate by no other marks than their names? nay, do we not find the same character placed by different poets in such different lights, that we can discover not the least sameness, or even likeness, in the features? The Sophonisba of Mairet and of Lee is a tender, passionate, amorous mistress of Massinissa: Corneille and Mr. Thomson give her no other passion but the love of her country, and make her as cool in her affection to Massinissa as to Syphax. In the two latter she resembles the character of Queen Elizabeth; in the two former she is the picture of Mary Queen of Scotland. In short, the one Sophonisba is as different from the other as the Brutus of Voltaire is from the Marius, jun., of Otway, or as the Minerva is from the Venus of the ancients.

Let us now proceed to a regular examination of the tragedy before us, in which I shall treat separately of the Fable, the Moral, the Characters, the Sentiments, and the Diction. And first of the Fable; which I take to be the most simple imaginable; and, to use the words of an eminent author, "one, regular, and uniform, not charged with a multiplicity of incidents, and yet affording several revolutions of fortune, by which the passions may be excited, varied, and driven to their full tumult of emotion." Nor is the action of this tragedy less great than uniform. The spring of all is the love of Tom Thumb for Huncamunca; which caused the quarrel between their majesties in the first act; the passion of Lord Grizzle in the second; the rebellion, fall of Lord Grizzle and Glumdalca, devouring of Tom Thumb by the cow, and that bloody catastrophe, in the third.

Nor is the Moral of this excellent tragedy less noble than the Fable; it teaches these two instructive lessons, viz., that human happiness is exceeding transient, and that death is the certain end of all men: the former whereof is inculcated by the fatal end of Tom Thumb; the latter, by that of all the other personages.

The Characters are, I think, sufficiently described in thedramatis personæ; and I believe we shall find few plays where greater care is taken to maintain them throughout, and to preserve in every speech that characteristical mark which distinguishes them from each other. "But," says Mr. D——, "how well doth the character of Tom Thumb (whom we mustcall the hero of this tragedy, if it hath any hero) agree with the precepts of Aristotle, who defineth, 'tragedy to be the imitation of a short but perfect action, containing a just greatness in itself?' &c. What greatness can be in a fellow whom history related to have been no higher than a span?" This gentleman seemeth to think, with Serjeant Kite, that the greatness of a man's soul is in proportion to that of his body, the contrary of which is affirmed by our English physiognominical writers. Besides, if I understand Aristotle right, he speaketh only of the greatness of the action, and not of the person.

As for the Sentiments and the Diction, which now only remain to be spoken to, I thought I could afford them no stronger justification than by producing parallel passages out of the best of our English writers. Whether this sameness of thought and expression which I have quoted from them proceeded from an agreement in their way of thinking, or whether they have borrowed from our author, I leave the reader to determine. I shall adventure to affirm this of the Sentiments of our author, that they are generally the most familiar which I have ever met with, and at the same time delivered with the highest dignity of phrase; which brings me to speak of his diction. Here I shall only beg one postulatum, viz., that the greatest perfection of the language of a tragedy is, that it is not to be understood; which granted (as I think it must be), it will necessarily follow that the only way to avoid this is by being too high or too low for the understanding, which will comprehend everything within its reach. Those two extremities of style Mr. Dryden illustrates by the familiar image of two inns, which I shall term the aërial and the subterrestrial.

Horace goes further, and showeth when it is proper to call at one of these inns, and when at the other:—

Telephus et Peleus, cùm pauper et exul uterque,Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba.

Telephus et Peleus, cùm pauper et exul uterque,

Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba.

That he approveth of thesesquipedalia verbais plain; for, had not Telephus and Peleus used this sort of diction in prosperity, they could not have dropped it in adversity. The aërial inn, therefore (says Horace), is proper only to be frequented by princes and other great men in the highest affluence of fortune; the subterrestrial is appointed for the entertainment of the poorer sort of people only, whom Horace advises,

—dolere sermone pedestri.

The true meaning of both which citations is, that bombast is the proper language for joy, and doggrel for grief; the latter of which is literally implied in thesermo pedestris, as the former is in thesesquipedalia verba.

Cicero recommendeth the former of these: "Quid est tam furiosum vel tragicum quàm verborum sonitus inanis, nullâ subjectâ sententiâ neque scientiâ." What can be so proper for tragedy as a set of big sounding words, so contrived together as to convey no meaning? which I shall one day or other prove to be the sublime of Longinus. Ovid declareth absolutely for the latter inn:

Omne genus scripti gravitate tragœdia vincit.

Tragedy hath, of all writings, the greatest share in the bathos; which is the profound of Scriblerus.

I shall not presume to determine which of these two styles be properer for tragedy. It sufficeth that our author excelleth in both. He is very rarely within sight through the whole play, either rising higher than the eye of your understanding can soar, or sinking lower than it careth to stoop. But here it may perhaps be observed that I have given more frequent instances of authors who have imitated him in the sublime than in the contrary. To which I answer, first, bombast being properly a redundancy of genius, instances of this nature occur in poets whose names do more honour to our author than the writers in the doggrel, which proceeds from a cool, calm, weighty way of thinking. Instances whereof are most frequently to be found in authors of a lower class. Secondly, that the works of such authors are difficultly found at all. Thirdly, that it is a very hard task to read them, in order to extract these flowers from them. And lastly, it is very difficult to transplant them at all; they being like some flowers of a very nice nature, which will flourish in no soil but their own: for it is easy to transcribe a thought, but not the want of one. The "Earl of Essex," for instance, is a little garden of choice rarities, whence you can scarce transplant one line so as to preserve its original beauty. This must account to the reader for his missing the names of several of his acquaintance, which he had certainly found here, had I ever read their works; for which, if I have not a just esteem, I can at least say with Cicero, "Quæ non contemno, quippè quæ nunquam legerim." However, that the reader may meet with due satisfaction in this point, I have a young commentator from the university, who is reading over all the modern tragedies, at five shillings a dozen, and collecting all that they have stole from our author, which shall be shortly added as an appendix to this work.

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