The Two Queens of Brentford : or, Bayes no Poetaster a Musical Farce, or Comical Opera |
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 | The Two Queens of Brentford : or, Bayes no Poetaster |  |
Scene I.
The Scene opens, and the two Kings appear, seated with their Queens, all comically drest; Prince Volcius and Prince Prettiman guarded, attending by.Enter Bayes, Smith, Chanter and Johnson, as before.
Bayes.
Now, Gentlemen, I'll pretend to shew ye a
right Scene of State. Appear Kings and
Queens in your Royalty sitting in Judgment
upon the Princes.—Prince Volcius, you
are to speak first, pray begin, Sir—And therefore—
John.
How!—And therefore; Zoons, did ever any
Prince's Speech before begin with—And therefore.
Bayes.
Prithee be quiet, Mr. What d'ye call'm—Gadzookers,
you know I have told ye already these Matters are
above the Sphere of your Country understanding. Pray don't
be troublesome.
Smith.
Well, but under Favour, Mr. Bayes, as Johnson says,
And therefore is a very odd beginning, unless they have been
stating the Case before.
Bayes.
Before—why they are suppos'd to have talk'd so
long within, that the Examination is quite over, the Queens
impeach'd 'em, the Kings discuss'd the Matter, and the
Princes made so notable a Defence, that they are now upon
the Huff, and will get off, you shall see presently—by another
Turn. And pray was not this better contriv'd, than a
damn'd long Scene of fending and proving, that would tire
the Audience as well as the Actors?
Smith.
Nay, if that were in his Head, Johnson.
John.
There is not so much in his Head as this pinch of
Snuff, Begad.
Bayes.
Aw—never fear my making things plain, Mr.
Smith—Go on, pray Friend, in Verse—And therefore—
And therefore since our Honours have been soil'd,
P. Prett.
And Scandal has our florent Glory spoil'd.
Both.
Depend on't, Kings—
[Angrily.
Bayes.
Look'e, I told you they were upon the Huff.
Chant.
This is indeed very Political, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes.
Ay, Sir, they are no Fools,—pray mind,—
speak now, you by your self.
To P. Volcius.
P. Vol.
Depend on't, Kings,—our Breasts shall harbour Flame,
'Till we're acquainted, whence this Scandal came.
P. Pret.
'Tis an Affront unto our Princely Race;
Greater our Birth, the greater our Disgrace.
Bayes.
The greater the Disgrace; very well spoke indeed,
Mr. a.—Now hear the Kings.
1 King.
Kings cannot always judge where Right is due.
2 King.
You were Impeach'd by those we thought spoke true;
And if by erring Judgment we're misled,
Stanch Satisfaction must atone the Deed.
Bayes.
That's now like a Man of Honour.
1 King.
Let Guilt be cleans'd, and Innocence appear,
We still as formerly shall wear you here;
2 King.
Nor what we Eat or Drink, be half so dear.
Bayes.
So tender, so good, I have drawn these two Kings,
the very Patterns of Clemency.
John.
Thou hast drawn a couple of damn'd Ideots, that's
all I can see of 'em.
P. Vol.
Bring me the Caitiff here before my Face,
Tho' made Impregnate, as Achilles was.
P. Pret.
Or bring some Female of renown'd Idea,
Strong as the Warlike Queen Penthisilæa.
P. Vol.
Straight, in Seccoon, grim Death shall be his Lot,
P. Pret.
And with my Point, in Cart, I'll lay her flat.
Bayes.
My point in Cart, I'll lay her flat.—Is not that
strong? Now han't those Verses fire in 'em, hah?
Smith.
Fire, ay; but pray, Mr. Bayes, take care it be lambent,
won't the heat of your Metaphor offend the Ladies,
think ye?
John.
I hope it will.
Chant.
Why Faith, as you say, that may be a little too
free.
Bayes.
No, Sir, no; 'tis beyond their Apprehension, the
Ladies have no Notion of Fencing, none in the World, Sir.
—But now for the Turn, pray hear the Queens—Come,
Mrs. a.—Oh! Words more sweet.
[Teaching her in a Tone,
Oh! Words more sweet, than Honey that do's please
The luscious Taste, when Farmers burn their Bees.
2 Queen.
Oh! graceful Person, that where'er it moves,
So charms the Eye, that she that sees it loves.
Was I inchanted.—but I'll straight atone,
And what I swore against 'em—I'll disown.
1 Queen.
My Tongue shall never such dear Lives betray,
What has been said—I'll turn another way.
We'll chouse our Kings,
2 Queen.
And make 'em soon obey.
Begin the Musick—and let's have a Dance.
[The Queen goes and whispers the Kings, who thereupon rise and smile on the Princes.
Bayes.
There's a Turn now for ye, Mr. Critick—Who
would suspect this; the Queens on a sudden fall in Love with
the Princes, and leading the poor Kings by the Nose—as
what can't Women do? for the present invalidate the Evidence,
and to divert 'em, call for the Musick; ha, ha, ha.
John.
Ay, pray Sir, is that like Women of Honour too,
to forswear themselves?
Bayes.
Forswear themselves—Oons—why did not I
tell ye they were in Love?—Honour, why they're mad,
Sir, mad for Love—and a Queen or a Commoner, in
such a Case, values an Oath no more than an Oyster-shell—
Come, come, let's have the Musick; which to vary the Diversion,
and entertain this Royal Assembly properly, shall be
some Humours of a Court. Come, flourish there—and enter
Groom of the back Stairs, and my young Widow, Lady
Breakback.
Enter young Irish Beau.
Song here in Dialogue.
He.
Distinguish'd for a Shape and Face;
And blest with lucky Confidence,
As well as some degrees of Sense,
I've got a handsom Place;
Yet this won't satisfy half my Ambition,
Methinks I'm still in a sorry Condition.
And Twenty Thousand Pounds lies yonder;
The buxom Widow too that owns it:
That Bliss would be true Life endearing,
And see, the Goddess is appearing.
Inspire my Tongue to fawn and lye
Of this, or that, or t'other Toy;
Of Balls or Beaus,
Or Gaudy Cloaths,
Or any other thing to please her.
Lady.
Go bid the Chairmen wait, sure I shall come
In good time now into the Drawing Room.
He.
Mine is good Time I'm sure, since now I can
Such Excellence approach—
She.
What says the Man?
He.
The Man condemn'd by Love's Imperial Law,
Says thou'rt the sweetest Woman!
Oh! thou'rt the sweetest Woman!
His Eyes yet ever saw.
Those Planets blast me, oh, that Shape and Air,
So fine, so charming, and that Face so fair;
Like Sea-born Venus, do's inchant me so,
I cannot move, nor can I let you go.
She.
Not let me go?
He.
Nay, now I'm sure I can't.
My hearing that dear Note,
As from sweet Philomell's melodious Throat,
Do's more and more inchant.
She.
An odd bold prating Fellow—strangely rude,
Sure you'll not force my stay?
He.
Divinely good!—
Darling of Fate! by Love inspir'd and taught!
She.
What Nation you, and so much Flatt'ry brought?
What gave you Birth?
He.
Dear Bogland.
She.
So I thought.
No other Country durst have been so bold.
He.
A sign I'm made of a more mettled Mold.
I've had a Vision, dearest Dear,
That told me I should meet you here;
Shew'd me what Wife the Fates had chose,
Just such a Face, with such a Nose,
Your Figure and your very Cloaths.
I must, must seize my own!
She.
You saucy grow;
Shall I not go to Court?
He.
To Court, no, no;
You must go back to Church, a Priest and Ring,
With Love and me, and a more charming Thing
Shall please ye better, than the Court or King.
She.
I strive to go, and yet I hardly can,
I'm charm'd, why sure the Devil's in the Man!
His Impudence is into liking grown,
Thus, thus, poor Widows, is your Weakness shewn.
He.
Now shine, my Irish Stars, and she's my own.
She.
My dull, sickly Husband, whom late I did wed,
Three Years has enjoy'd me without e'er a Kid;
And say what we will, we can never bear that,
This Yonker, methinks, has a far better Lot.
He'll tell me a Story, would surely prevail,
And looks as his Argument never could fail.
He.
You must be mine, by Jove, d'ye think I'll be forsworn?
She.
An impudent young Rogue as ever sure was born;
And yet, to argue freely, altho' the Phrase is course,
I know not what do's ail me, I like him ne'er the worse.
He.
Joy shall regale my Widow, we'll frolick still in Mirth.
She.
And will you get me Children?
He.
Three fine Boys at a Birth.
She.
Away—you grand Deceiver.
He.
Try, try—my Love, my Life.
She.
And what if I should venture,
He.
Why then, my Dear, my Wife,
Let's Wed just now, I tell ye,
It ne'er can be too soon;
I'll get thee a big Belly
Before to morrow Noon.
She.
Od's Life, 'tis a Match.
He.
We'll the Proverb make out,
The Marriage is happy that's not long about.
She.
You Courtiers but seldom a Jointure can spare,
So I'll for a Kid give Three Thousand a Year.
There's nought but thy Person can give me more Joy,
For that's what I want, 'tis a folly to Lye.
Chorus of both. Treble and Bass.
He.
Why then 'tis a Match, we'll the Proverb make out.
She.
Why then 'tis a Match, we'll the Proverb make out.
He.
The Marriage is happy that's not long about.
She.
The Marriage is happy that's not long about.
He.
We Courtiers but seldom a Jointure can spare.
She.
You Courtiers but seldom a Jointure can spare.
He.
So you'll for a Kid give Three Thousand a Year.
She.
So I'll for a Kid give Three Thousand a Year.
He.
There's nought but thy Person can give me more Joy.
She.
There's nought but thy Person can give me more Joy.
He.
For that's what I want, 'tis a Folly to Lye.
She.
For that's what you want, 'tis a Folly to Lye.
Bayes.
Well, now, Mr. Smith, pray deal faithfully with
me; how dy'e like this Dialogue?
Smith.
Mighty well, indeed, Mr. Bayes, there's nothing
wanting, and without doubt you have brought Johnson over
now.
Bayes.
And what say you, Sir?
Chant.
Oh! good without Exception, I like it extremely.
Bayes.
As for you, Sir—
John.
Ay, Sir, as for me, I say it may pass for want of
better.
Bayes.
Very good, troth—I think it may, Sir.—Yet,
Gentlemen, to oppose ye all now—I must say—'tis not my
Favourite; 'tis a good plain thing, and will down with easy
Appetites; but not like our dear Cowlady, Mr. a—that
was a Non Parelio, egad—Ah! that dear, dear Humble Bee!
John.
Buz—
Chant., Smith.
Ha, ha, ha, ha.
Bayes.
Come now for the t'other two little Songs that
must be serv'd in as Pages to this Court Lady—This now,
Gentlemen, is suppos'd to be a nice Character of a Maid of
Honour. Come little Mrs. a—let's hear your Treble.
Enter another Singer.
SONG here,
I.
A Virgins Life who would be leaving,Free from Care and fond Desire;
Loving none, yet all inspire.
We sit above and Knot the live-long Day,
A thousand pretty harmless things we say;
But not one Word of Wedlock's frightful Noose,
For fear we chance to think what we must lose.
II.
Our Souls are free from dire Revenges,Bosom's Mischief never owns;
Our Wit's employ'd in making Fringes,
Or embroidering our Gowns.
If any Lover comes to play the Thief,
Our natural dear Cunning gives Relief.
We dance, we sing the tedious Hours away,
And when we've nothing else to do—we pray.
Bayes.
Ah, well said, my little Dear; egad I'll kiss thee
for that.
[Kisses her, and Exit Singer.
Smith.
Why God-a-mercy Poet, Faith.
Chant.
Oh! she deserves—a small Fee certainly.
John.
If the Audience should chance to Clap here you'd
see him as rampant as a Colt.
Bayes.
We must do so now and then to these young things
to keep up their Spirits—Egad they'd flag in their Cadance,
and sing out of Tune else. Come now for her Sister, another
young Companion, or Confident, to this Court Lady.
—Come enter little Lady Phæbe Finesse, she's ravingly in
Love, you must know, with the Son of a great Duke—
who, egad, they say, loves one of the Actresses—but
Mum for that; and her Song is a Hue-and-cry after her
Heart—'tis very quaint and odd you'll find; come Lady
Phæbe.
I.
O Yes, O Yes, O Yes, I cry,Pray tell you gentle Swains are by,
If you a roving Heart have met,
Did lately from my Bosom get.
II.
Some Marks to shew it I'll express,It comes of loyal honest Race;
And constant as the Turtle Dove.
III.
Upon the out-side of the same,You'll find the charming Damon's Name,
By Love ingrav'd, and plain to shew,
From which fresh Drops of Gore do flow.
IV.
'Tis tender as soft Down can be,Or Beauty in its Infancy;
Nor Wealth can make it e'er untrue,
Such Hearts as mine you'll find but few.
V.
That 'twas confin'd, I late was told,Amongst the Lambs in Cupid's Fold;
If so, pray seek that Deity,
And carry this Resolve from me:
VI.
If he'll restore my Heart agen,I'll keep it from Deceits of Men;
From wily Wits, and am'rous Tongues,
And all that to their Sex belongs.
VII.
But if my Heart he'll me refuse,For 'tis a Jewel few would lose;
Pray let him tell dear Damon this,
And in Exchange command me his.
And now for the Dance, the Dance Ænigmatical, Gentlemen,
'tis as full of Satyr, egad, as an Egg; for my Design
in't, you must know, is to introduce at Court the Blessing
of Concord—You shall see come first enter Concord, in
her left Hand an Olive and a Myrtle Branch twining, in her
Right a good Goblet of Lamb's-Wool.
Smith.
So; but why Lambs-Wool, pray?
Chant.
Ay, that's a Novelty indeed.
Bayes.
Why, Sir, 'tis harmless Rural, and egad I think as
pretty an Emblem of Amity and Friendship as any.
John.
Ay among Country Hobbs, that dance round their
Appletrees at Christmas.
Enter Six Figures comically dress'd.
Bayes.
Your Patience, pray Sir; so, now enter six foreign
Figures representing Nations—Observe, pray mind this
Fancy, 'tis notable I assure ye, for all of 'em have, or ought
to have, Concerns with Concord there; look how they ogle
her, some with Love-leers, and some with Indifference:
The first in the Bear-skin there, is a damn'd cold frozen Fellow,
a Muscovite, he cares not a Fox-tail for her.
Chant.
What's he there in Buff, with a black Crape Neckcloth
on, and the blue Shirt, shewn with open Sleeves?
Bayes.
Why, Sir, he's a Swede, a plaguy mad hot brain'd
rough Fellow; but the Muscovite having formerly thresh'd
him, he's now a little upon the Morose; besides he's over-aw'd
by the Turk that stands by him, who some time since
paid for his Diet, and lent him Money.
John.
And what do's he take to now, pray?
Bayes.
Oh, Sir, sets up for a King of Piracy—lends his
Fleet and an Army to make a Descent upon those that aspire
to new Kingdom; all, all crack-brain'd, as mad as a very
Devil, you must know.
Chant.
Then—the squab Fellow—that's a Dutch
Hero, I suppose?
Bayes.
Sir, a Battavian, if you please; pray no vulgar
Words; to say Truth, Mr. Smith, he's a difficult Creature,
and was lately damnably averse to Concord—but he is sociable
at last, provided 'tis profitable, and he may dance his
own way.
Smith.
But pray what's he with the Whiskers?
Bayes.
Odso—softly—pray Sir, a High German—plaguy
untractable too—and very angry with the Frenchman that's
near him, whose old Master, it seems, before the present Regency,
politickly gave his Grandson a rich Manor of Land
that he thought he was Heir to; the Frenchman's a devilish
I shall say little of him.
Chant.
Very well, now the last there, what's he?
Bayes.
He, ha, ha, ha; I thought you might have found
him out by his Saturnine Phiz; why, Sir, he's a whimsical
Englishman, his Humour just like the Seasons of his own
Country, hot and cold, shining and storming in the space of
half an Hour.
Smith.
He's a Rarity on my word.
Bayes.
He represents a Race that never could keep in with
Concord, not suitable to their own volatile Fancies from the
beginning of the World to this present time: but he'll make
one amongst 'em now, you'll see, because he thinks he can
do it with Honour, for a sham Peace has lately stuck upon
his Gizzard plaguily.
Chant.
Methinks I long to see 'em proceed.
Bayes.
Come, all stand now in a Circle—and by turns
drink of the Bowl.
[They all drink.]
Well done—why
there's Concord now I think, in Perfection, and now we'll
have the Dance—Stay—but first the Catch in three Parts,
made for the Occasion—Begin.
A Catch here in three Parts.
I.
Sound it o'er Albion, sound it high,Peace with Fame, or glorious War,
British Sons unite with Joy
And all defend great George's Crown.
II.
Raise up his Glory to the Sky,He now invites your Arms, prepare;
Youth you can ne'er so well employ,
And drive all false Pretenders down.
III.
France is renown'd for Feats of War,Thousands the German Braves have seen;
Some the bold Muscovite will praise,
But English Generals all excel.
IV.
Who has not heard of bold Villars?Who has not heard of great Eugene?
Many the Czar's Renown do raise,
But conqu'ring Marl'brough bears the Bell.
V.
Fill then the Glasses to the brim,Strong as the Wine let Courage be;
Firm to your rightful Sovereign stand;
For factious Foes let no one care.
VI.
Great George's Health, we'll drink to him,Then let it sound eternally:
Three noble Bumpers in a Hand,
Peace with Fame, or glorious War.
Bayes
sings.
Peace with Fame, or glorious War.—
Hey Boys, Gentlemen, your humble Servant, ye have oblig'd
me to a high degree, egad.
[To the Singers going off.]
Come
now the Dance, and then go off Kings and Queens, with
the Princes, and drink your Chocolate.
A humourous Dance here by the six Figures and Concord, and then Exeunt all but Bayes and the Gent.
Smith.
Most exquisite, I never saw a better Fancy.
Chant.
Very fine indeed.
John.
As fine as 'tis, Faith I'll go and take a Dish of Chocolate
with the Queens—say what you please.
Smith.
We'll all go, and then come and hear the rest.
Bayes.
Aloons donc.
[Exeunt.
| The Two Queens of Brentford : or, Bayes no Poetaster | |