University of Virginia Library

SCENE. I.

Hateall, Hazlerod, Monsieur, Beau Trumps, Simple, Humbug, Sir Sparrow. &c. &c.
Scriblerius.
Thy toast Monsieur,
—
Pray, why that solemn phiz?—
Art thou too balancing 'twixt right and wrong?
Hast thou a thought so mean as to give up
Thy present good, for promise in reversion
'Tis true hereafter has some feeble terrors,
But e'er our grizley heads are wrapt in clay
We may compound, and make our peace with Heav'n.

Monsieur.
Could I give up the dread of retribution
The awful reck'ning of some future day,
Like surly Hateall! I might curse mankind,
And dare the threat'ned vengeance of the skies.
Or like yon apostate.—
[Pointing to Hazlerod, retired to a corner to read Massachusettensis.]
Feel but slight remorse
To sell my country for a grasp of Gold,
But the impressions of my early youth,
Infix'd by precepts of my pious sire,
Are stings and scorpions in my goaded breast,
Oft have I hung upon my parents knee
And heard him tell of his escape from France;
He left the land of slaves, and wooden shoes;
From place to place he sought a safe retreat,
Till fair Bostonia stretch'd her friendly arm
And gave the refugee both bread and peace,
(Shall I ungrateful erase the sacred bonds,
And help to clank the tyrant's iron chains
O'er these blest shores—once the sure assylum
From all the ills of arbitrary sway)
With his expiring breath he bade his sons
If e'er oppression reach'd the western world
Resist its force, and break the servile yoke.

Scriblerius.
Well quit thy post;—Go make thy flatt'ring court
To Freedom's Son's and tell thy baby fears;
Shew the soft traces in thy puny heart,
Made by the trembling tongue and quiv'ring lip
Of an old grandsire's superstitious whims.

Monsieur
No,—I never can—
So great the itch I feel for titl'd place
Some honorary post, some small distinction,
To save my name from dark oblivions jaws,
I'll Hazard all, but ne'er give up my place,
For that I'll see Rome's antient rites restor'd,
And flame and faggot blaze in ev'ry street.

Beau-Trumps.
—That's right Monsieur,
There's nought on earth that has such tempting charms
As rank and show, and pomp, and glitt'ring dress,
Save the dear counters at belov'd quadrill,
Viner unsoil'd, and Littleton may sleep,
And Coke lie mould'ring on the dusty shelf,
If I by shuffling draw some lucky card
That wins the livers, or lucrative place.

Hum-Humbug.
When sly Rapatio shew'd his friends the scrall,
I wonder'd much to see thy patriot name
Among the list of rebels to the state,
I thought thee one of Rusticus's sworn friends.

Beau-Trumps.
When first I enter'd on the public stage
My country groan'd beneath base Brundo's hand,
Virtue look'd fair and beckon'd to her lure,
Thro' truth's bright mirror I beheld her charms
And wish'd to tread the patriotic path.
And wear the Laurels that adorn his fame;
I walk'd a while and tasted solid peace
With Cassius, Rusticus and good Hortensius,
And many more, whose names will be rever'd
When you and I, and all the venal herd
Weigh'd in Nemosis just impartial scale,
Are mark'd with infamy till time blot out
And in oblivion sink our hated names.
But 'twas a poor unprofitable path
Nought to be gain'd, save solid peace of mind.
No pensions, place or title there I found;
I saw Rapatio's arts had struck so deep
And giv'n his country such a fatal wound
None but its foes promotion could expect;
I trim'd, and pimp'd, and veer'd, and wav'ring stood
But half resolv'd to show myself a knave,
Till the Arch Traitor prowling round for aid
Saw my suspense and bid me doubt no more;—
He gently bow'd, and smiling took my hand,
And whispering softly in my listening ear,
Shew'd me my name among his chosen band,
And laugh'd at virtue dignify'd by fools,
Clear'd all my doubts, and bid me persevere
In spite of the restraints, or hourly checks
Of wounded friendship, and a goaded mind,
Or all the sacred ties of truth and honour.

Collateralis.
Come 'mongst ourselves we'll e'en speak out the truth.
Can you suppose there yet is such a dupe
As still believes that wretch an honest man?
The latter strokes of his serpentine brain
Outvie the arts of Machiavel himself;
His Borgian model here is realiz'd,
And the stale tricks of politicians play'd
Beneath a vizard fair—
—Drawn from the Heav'nly form
Of blest religion weeping o'er the land
For virtue fall'n, and for freedom lost.

Beau-Trumps.
I think with you—
—unparallelled his effront'ry,
When by chican'ry and specious art,
Mid'st the distress in which he'd brought the city,
He found a few, (by artifice and cunning,
By much industry of his wily friend
The false Philanthrop—sly undermining tool,
Who with the Syren's voice—
Deals daily round the poison of his tongue,)
To speak him fair—and overlook his guilt.
They by reiterated promise made
To stand their friend at Britain's mighty court,
And vindicate his native injur'd land,
Lent him their names to sanctify his deeds.
But mark the traitor—his high crime gloss'd o'er
Conceals the tender feelings of the man,
The social ties that bind the human heart;
He strikes a bargain with his country's foes,
And joins to wrap America in flames.
Yet with feign'd pity, and Satanic grin,
As if more deep to fix the keen insult,
Or makes his life a farce still more compleat,
He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic,
And with a phiz of Crocodilian stamp,
Can weep, and wreathe, still hoping to deceive,
He cries the gath'ring clouds hang thick about her,
But laughs within—then sobs—
—Alas! my country!

Hum-Humbug.
Why so severe, or why exclaim at all,
Against the man who made thee what thou art?

Beau-Trumps.
I know his guilt,—I ever knew the man,
Thy father knew him e're we tred the stage;
I only speak to such as know him well;
Abroad I tell the World he is a saint.
But as for interest, I betray'd my own
With the same views, I rank'd among his friends;
But my ambition sighs for something more.
What merits has sir Sparrow of his own,
And yet a feather graces the Fool's cap:
Which did he wear for what himself atchiev'd,
'Twould stamp some honour on his latest heir—
But I'll suspen'd my murm'ring rays awhile;
Come t'other glass—and try our luck at loo,
And if before the dawn your gold I win,
Or e'er bright Phœbus does his course begin,
The eastern breeze from Britain's hostile shore
Should waft her lofty floating towers o'er,
Whose waving pendants sweep the wat'ry main,
Dip their proud beaks and dance towards the plain,
The destin'd plains of slaughter and distress,
Laden with troops from Hanover and Hess,
I would invigorate my sinking soul,
For then the continent we might controul;
Not all the millions that she vainly boasts
Can cope with Veteran Barbarian hosts;—
But the brave sons of Albion's warlike race,
Their arms, and honours, never can disgrace,
Or draw their swords in such a hated cause
In blood to seal a N---'s oppressive laws.
They'll spurn the service;—Briton's must recoil,
And show themselves the natives of an isle
Who sought for freedom, in the worst of times
Produc'd her Hampden's, Fairfaxe's and Pym's.
But if by carnage we should win the game,
Perhaps by my abilities and fame,
I might attain a splendid glitt'ring car,
And mount aloft, and sail in liquid air,
Like Phæton, I'd then out-strip the wind,
And leave my low competitors behind.