The Twickenham Hotch-Potch :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Twickenham Hotch-Potch

For the Use of the Rev. Dr. Swift, Alexander Pope, Esq.; and Company. Being a sequel to the Beggars Opera, &c. Containing, I. The State of Poetry, and Fate of Poets, in the Reign of King Charles IId. II. Seriousities and Comicalities, by Peter Henning, a Dutchman. III. Two Dozen of Infallible Maxims, for Court and City. IV. The Present War among Authors, viz. Swift, Pope, Theobald, Rolli, Voltaire, Parson B---dy, and Mr. Ozell. V. The Rival Actresses, viz. Mrs. O---d, Mrs. P---r, Mrs. B---h, Miss Y---ger and Miss Polly Peachum. VI. A Poetical Catalogue of Polly Peachum's Gallants. VII. An Epistle from Signora F---na to a Lady. VIII. A True Copy of Polly Peachum's Opera. Also, her Panegyrick. Written by Caleb D'Anvers [i.e. Nicholas Amhurst]

Amhurst, N. (1697-1742)

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Puissant Pompey planted Phrygian-Powers,
And topsy-turvy turn'd the Tyrian-Towers.
Lee's Art of Rising in Poetry.

Seriosities and Comicalities By Way of HOTCH-POTCH, BY Peter Henning, a Dutchman,

Who bravely show'd a glorious Dissent To Those who first read Greek by Accent.

Oppositio est Pugna Rerum. Burgersdicius, Lib. 1. Cap. 22.

[_]

This Piece is Genuine, though I must honestly own, it is made publick without the Consent either of Mr. Alexander Pope, or Mr. Dean Swift.

Veritas odium parit.

To the Age.

Hail learned Age! with Pamphlets richly fraught,
Some very good, and others good for nought. [OMITTED]

[_]

Cætera desunt in MS.

On Scriblers.

IF He's an Author who to Paper
Sets Pen, and squeezes out some Sense;
Then He who just can cut a Caper,
A Dancing-Master may commence.
But none can by so small a Claim,
B' intitled to so great a Name;
For Men, who can't speak Sense, can Scribble,
As Children, who can't Spit, can Dribble.

Two Dozen of Useful MAXIMS.

XXIV. The Pamphleteers have plunder'd many Pockets, not overcharg'd with Money.

Two-penny Works (when Hawkers cry 'em)
What Man on Earth can chuse but buy 'em?
Therefore Expences to prevent,
I have at last resolv'd to print:
Buy this one Tract, and read it o'er,
And you will ne're want any more.
Here C---r's Doctrine is confuted,
Whate'er was, or shall be disputed,
From Adam down to us, and so
As far as Time himself can go.

[_]

N. B. If the Ingenious and Learned World shall take it into their Heads to be so obliging, as to be prodigiously fond of this small Tract; the Author, perhaps, may one Time or other think fit, by Way of Enlargement, to throw into it a wonderful deal of Wit and Jocosity; and will, at his own Expence, stuff it out with vast Variety of uncommon Erudition.

[_]

Pages 9–16 are missing from the source document.

[Yet, dear Poll, you may]

[OMITTED]

XIV

Yet, dear Poll, you may
Suffer J---y G---y
For to S---h you for his Play,
Which has rais'd your Grandeur;
Before which
You would S---h
Near Fleet-Ditch,
P---le was your Pindar:
Then don't you vaunt it over all,
Then don't you vaunt it over all,
Tho' you are pretty Poll.

The following Lines being sent to the Author as an Answer to the foregoing Ballad, he, to shew what he published was not done out of Malice to Polly Peachum, has hereunto annexed them, having so much Value for the Female Sex as to give Fair Play to a Fair Woman.

I

Pray, Sir, who are you
That thus dares to shew
Polly's Pranks to open View,
And so loud expose her;
Cruel Bard,
This is hard,
No Regard
To Poll, nor those that knows her;
For you do Lampoon 'em all,
For you do Lampoon 'em all,
As well as pretty Poll.

II

Are you Pimp or Spy
That does thus descry
Poll's Gallants, and where they lie,
L---s and G---'d Cullies:
Can't your Muse
Something chuse
From the Stews
Of Common Whores and Bullies;
But maliciously you fall,
But maliciously you fall,
On pretty, pretty Poll.

III

Poll performs her Parts
With such Grace and Arts,
That each Night she conquers Hearts,
Both in Pit and Boxes;
Then refrain,
Be'nt so plain,
Do not stain
Poll with common Doxies;
For she does Charm us all,
For she does Charm us all,
O pretty, pretty Poll.

IV

Since Poll has gain'd Applause,
All vindicate her Cause,
And prodigious Crowds she draws,
All conspire to Clap her;
The House rings,
When she Sings,
Must such Things
Vanish in a Vapour;
No, she out-shines them all,
No, she out-shines them all,
O pretty, pretty Poll.

EPIGRAM, To Miss Beswick, alias Fenton, alias Polly Peachum.

Be not vain of your fancy'd Success I desire you,
Nor think that Lords love you, because they admire you;
A Monster does, doubtless, deserve Admiration,
As much as the Prettiest Girl in the Nation;
And hourly Experience, Lavinia, will shew you,
A Granny is star'd at, as much as a Chloe.

[_]

This Ballad-Singing-Beauty (which our present Race of Beaus so much Admire) is a raw-bon'd, large-featur'd Female Virago, and having the necessary Qualification, requir'd by Serjeant Kite, of being six Foot high, is, no doubt, born to be a Great Woman.

AN EPISTLE FROM Signora F---A TO A LADY.

They do let Heaven see the Pranks,
They dare not shew their Husbands.
Othello.

Condemn not, Madam, as I write in Haste,
My Thoughts confus'd, or any Word misplac'd.
Of cens'ring Tongues I scorn the little Spite,
In wild Disorder, as I Love, I Write.
In Haste I write to ease your tortur'd Mind,
Spite of your Jealousy, I still am kind.
Unspotted as the Sun, my Love shall rise,
And soon dispel the Fears that cloud your Eyes.

Let others for dear Scandal search the Town,
Or with superior Fancy chuse a Gown:
Others their Heads with learned Volumes fill,
Or boast of deeper Science at Quadrille:
In the gay Dance let other Nymphs excel;
F---na's Glory lies in Loving well.
Of Pleasure all the various Modes I know,
Its different Degrees, its Ebb and Flow.
Ladies, unpractis'd in the Art of Love,
A living Aretin in me may prove.
Propitious Venus grant me Power to give
Joy to fair ---, 'tis for her I Live.
Cease then to let your jealous Fancy rove,
Nor give me such a cruel Proof of Love.
Am I in Fault, that Crouds obsequious bend,
And rival Beauties for my Love contend?
That fierce Thalestris has attack'd my Heart?
Or gentle Chloe cast a milder Dart?
To fierce Thalestris I disdain to yield,
And gentle Chloe ne'er shall gain the Field.
In vain she breathes her Passion in my Ear,
For when you speak I nothing else can hear:
In vain with Transport to my Feet she flew,
All Joys are tasteless, but what come thro' you.

Before your fatal Face I chanc'd to see,
No Cynick ever laugh'd at Love like me.
Inconstant as the Wind, free as the Air,
I rang'd from Man to Man, from Fair to Fair.
I rov'd about like the industrious Bee,
First suck'd the Honey, then forsook the Tree.
In Venus' Combats, I have spent the Day,
Swiss-like, I fought on any Side for Pay.
But now I Love, and your bewitching Face
Has well aveng'd the Cause of Human Race.
Do Justice to your self, review your Charms,
Nor fear to see me in another's Arms.
Have you not Beauty equal to your Youth?
Look in your Glass, and then suspect my Truth.
No Passion tramontane in you I've found,
By Love and Gratitude I'm doubly bound.
You first of all the British Fair declar'd,
I sung unrival'd, e'er my Voice you heard.
By Sympathy you felt each Charm, each Grace,
And lov'd my Person, e'er you saw my Face.
Nor was I coy, or difficult to move,
When you reveal'd the Story of your Love.
With such pathetick Mirth you play'd your Part,
You found an easy Conquest of my Heart.

I felt a thrilling Joy, 'till then unknown,
And Lov'd with Ardour equal to your own.
Witness the Transports of that happy Day,
When melting in each other's Arms we lay.
With Velvet Kiss your humid Lips I press'd,
And rode triumphant on your panting Breast.
Thus rode St. George, thus fearless thrust his Dart
Up to the Head in the fell Dragon's Heart.

In Extasy you cry'd, What Joys are these?
Not Durestanti's self so well cou'd please.
This is no sleepy Husband's feeble Mite,
The tasteless Tribute of an ill-spent Night.

Such were our Joys, O cou'd they always last!
But greatest Pleasures are the soonest past.
O did my Power and Will in Concert move!
And were my Strength but equal to my Love!
Th'incredulous Philosopher should see
Perpetual Motion verified in Me.

Polly Peachum's OPERA:

OR, A Medley of New Songs. Published with Her Approbation.

The Old Sportsman: Or, the Antiquated Baronet, behind the Scenes.

I

When first Sir Bob, that rusty Knight,
Appear'd upon the Stage,
All star'd at so Grotesque a Sight,
Nor seen since Alfred's Age.

II

Some thought him done on Pastboard, Sir,
And some in Canvas woven;
None e'er imagin'd he could stir,
But when the Scenes were moven.

III

All wonder'd, in the Toupee Rows
To see so odd a Figure,
Amidst the limber, damag'd, Beaus,
So' inelegant a Vigour.

IV

But they were all mistaken much,
Nor had they him well sounded,
For as their Hearts, just his was such,
And just as much was wounded:

V

Not they with warmer Pleasure hear
When Polly', in soft Expression,
Engages the attentive Ear,
With—All is in my Possession—

VI

Then into Raptures does he stray,
And tender Passions takes,
Who ne'er before was mov'd they say,
But with the Plate, or Stakes.

VII

Thus, have I seen a Jew-trump Girl,
In Fields of Lincoln's-Inn,
A Bear, by Pow'r of Musick, whirl
Into extatic Grin:

VIII

Each shaggy Limb just Measure takes,
His frosty Nature fire,
Each Nerve with new Emotion shakes,
Touch'd by th'harmonious Lyre.

A NEW BALLAD. BY Caleb D'Anvers.

[_]

To the Tune of, Sally in our Alley

I

Of all the Belles that tread the Stage,
There's none like pretty Polly,
And all the Musick of the Age,
Except her Voice, is Folly;
The waining Nymphs of Drury-Lane
I now can bear no longer;
And when she's present, I disdain
My quondam Favourite Y---ger.

II

Compar'd with her, how flat appears
Cuzzoni or Faustina?
And when she sings, I shut my Ears
To warbling Senesino.
What though her Father is a Rogue,
Her Mother though a Whore is?
Those Vices now are high in Vogue,
And Virtue out of Door is.

III

Great Dames there are, who break their Vows
As oft as Madam Peachum,
And greater Robbers than her Spouse,
Though Tyburn cannot reach 'em.
What though Macheath too is as bad
As Father or as Mother,
And, blest with Polly, is so mad
To ramble to another?

IV

Polly, I ween, is not the first,
Nor will she be the last, Sir,
Who in an Husband hath been curs'd,
And met the same Disaster.
How many Courtiers have we known,
Quite rotten ripe with Poxes,
Who, though they seldom wed but One,
Keep half a Dozen Doxies?

V

But Polly's not the worse a Pin,
Her Charms not less cœlestial;
But, though to Rogues and Whores a-kin,
An Angel is terrestrial.
Some Prudes indeed, with envious Spight,
Would blast her Reputation,
And tell us that to Ribands bright
She yields, upon Occasion.

VI

But these are all invented Lies,
And vile outlandish Scandal,
Which from Italian Clubs arise,
And Partizans of Handel.
Then let us toast the blooming Lass,
Whose Charms have thus ensnared me;
I'd drink it in a brimming Glass,
Though Parson H---rng heard me.

A mighty weak sucking Priest, who to show his Theological Capacity, preached a Sermon at Lincoln's-Inn-Chapel against the Deism of the Age, and the Beggars Opera.

Another, New BALLAD. Inscribed to Mr. Peachum, AND Captain Macheath, &c.

[_]

To the Tune of, Green Sleeves, alias Upon Tyburn Tree.

Macheath having bold Comrades in Sholes,
And most of them being poor easy Fools;
I'd have 'em take Care, he don't make them his Tools,
Upon Tyburn Tree.

If Peachum he once can get in the Mind,
(For Roguery, you know, he's alway inclined)
They'll tuck up the whole Gang, and think it kind,
Upon Tyburn Tree.

As for Matters which relate unto Proof,
Macheath will be Witness to cut them off,
And between 'em both they'll exalt them aloft
Upon Tyburn Tree.

But why should they their Friends thus deceive,
And say what they will, these Tools them believe,
Till at length, when too late, we shall see 'em grieve,
When at Tyburn Tree.

At their Tryals, such Words from their Mouths will allay,
That will give the poor Gentlemen Cause to curse the Day,
When they first got acquainted with Macheath or Gay,
Or knew Tyburn Tree.

Then quit their Company, e'er it be too late,
Lest you should meet with a deserved Fate,
And for an Hour should hang up in State,
Upon Tyburn Tree.

Tho' if you should let them know your Design,
Of leaving their wicked Gang in good Time;
Their Minds to hang you, (will certainly incline,)
Upon Tyburn Tree.

So since they have brought you into the Snare;
Advice in that kind will be never the near,
You should your selves have taken more Care
Of that Tyburn Tree.

SONGS, set to the Tunes Polly Peachum Sings in the Beggars Opera.

[I.]

[Oh ponder well! do not me blame]

[_]

To the Tune of, Now ponder well! ye Parents dear.

Oh ponder well! do not me blame
For Follies that are past,
If e'er I'm guilty of the same,
Then may I be lock'd fast;

And kept secure from S---e Arms,
Which Blessing I do prize,
And will secure him from all Harms
I can, between my T---.

But now my Conscience it does prick,
Macheath, I am afraid,
Will play an artful cunning Trick,
And will us both upbraid.

Captain Macheath is the best skill'd,
If they a Duel fight;
S---e per Chance then may be kill'd,
And Macheath put to Flight.

So here there are two Lovers lost;
Then I a new must find;
A RICH one's best to stand the Cost;
On him I'll fix my Mind.

II. [No more sporting]

No more sporting,
Nor no courting,
In the pleasant Venus' Play;
I'll grow wiser,
Be the nicer,
And throw off that simple Gay.
Since my Senses
Are Offences,
To that lovely Creature, Man;
Farewell Pleasure,
After Treasure,
They no more shall my Heart trapan.

III. Le Printemps rampelle aux Armes.

H*b---t , my Knight, 'tis him I adore,
Without flattering:
H*b---t, my Knight, 'tis him I adore,
And will be true.
And will pray for that happy Hour,
In which he will his Flames renew.

But for fear too much should him cloy,
And cause him to loath;
But for fear too much should him cloy,
And make him loath;
What he once prized as his Joy,
And above all Things what he chose.

I shall therefore, e'er it be long,
Beg him to desist;
I shall therefore, e'er it be long,
Beg he'd desist;
And peruse the proceeding Song,
Which is the Thoughts of my throbbing Breast.

IV. Good-morrow Gossip Joan.

Good-morrow pretty Knight,
I hope you were pleased
With the Raptures of last Night,
Upon which you feasted,
Pretty Knight.

Therefore most worthy Sir,
You can't think me cruel;
Nor take it for a Blur,
If I chuse another Jewel,
Worthy Sir.

V. Gin thou wert mine awn Thing ---

O I love thee to excess,
Must I leave thee, must I leave thee,
O I love thee to excess;
Must thy Polly ever leave thee;
But lest your Wife's Unkindness
Should interfere, and rob me o'the Bliss,
Then I must think of thee less,
And feast only on thy Idea.

VI. Thomas, I cannot, &c.

I like a Man should sport and play,
Without the Way of coquetting:
Kiss, smile and pass the Time away,
Without Remorse of regretting;
Ne'er think at last,
Of Pleasures past,
But Love; and Sorrow banish.
When you're at Ease,
Your Mind you please,
Then all Follies relinquish.

VII. I am a poor Shepherd undone, &c.

When my Lover his Suit did begin,
And open'd his Veins ev'ry Way,
It was so sweet I could not refrain
From sporting in Venus's Play,
His exceeding GAY Air and Mien,
Had such Influence over me,
That I thought RICH alias LUN,
Had been enjoying of my Body.
And alas, poor Polly!
Alack and well-a-day!
Before I was in Love,
Oh! every Month was May.

VIII. Grim King of the Ghosts, &c.

Since I am obliged to smile,
And must not the Menkind e'er scorn;
I'll take Care they shan't me beguile,
Lest they should leave me forlorn.
When they press me, I will seem kind,
And humour their pretty Air:
Kindness they always shall find,
So I'll play the coquetting Fair.

IX. O the Broom, &c.

If you'd an honest Man be deem'd,
In the Affairs of State;
Take Care you're not too well esteem'd,
By Both the High and Great:

Such as---and his Crew,
For if once you are hedg'd in;
They'll teach you how to cheat in Lew,
Of some of their own Kind.

Therefore beware, lest you are caught
In Cases of that Kind:
If are you be, your Head comes off,
Which Trifle they don't mind.

So if my Argument prevails,
And gives you an Insight
Into the Merits of these Fools,
Laugh at their foolish Bite.

X. All in the Downs the Fleet was moor'd, &c.

Virtue, dear Sir, needs no Defence,
Lest it should it self surprize;
The surest Guard is Innocence,
Which every Female ought to prize,
And bless the Powers that hath her endow'd
With no such Charms as for to be belov'd.

Come all you of the Female Kind,
That can Love when Necessity calls,
And can feign a being kind,
To prevent you from the Man's enthrols.
Never let your Minds to them be inclin'd,
If you do, at last, you'll find them unkind.

XI. What shall I do to shew how much I love her, &c.

My Dear, you are so Charming I do adore thee,
And could for ever feast on the Delights,
Whilst you lay panting and were enjoying me,
And did such sweet Raptures to me impart;
But when I once think of quitting your Presence,
And am oblig'd in anoth'r's Arms to lye;
Yet I never will fail to give you the Preference,
And will my Love, my Dear, never deny.

XII. Would Fate to me Belinda give ---

Among the Men, Coquets we find,
Who court by Turns all Women-kind;
And when they their Intents have gain'd,
Then you may see their Passion was feign'd.

But pray, shall we not then in lieu,
Who are gen'rally loving and true;
Be cautious how our Minds we place,
On so fickle a Creature's Face.

XIII. Pretty Parrot say ---

Poll likes Sir R--- F---,
For to play the Wag;
Because he is no great Brag,
Like her witty Lover GAY:
Heaving Sighs,
In Transport dies,
Between her T---s;
Often does he faint away:
And on her Bosom loll,
And on her Bosom loll,
O pretty, pretty Poll.

Poll's a pretty Fair,
With a charming Air,
That she is ador'd by all
Who does her Sex admire;
She'll no more,
Play the Whore,
For a Score
Of those who would buy her;
For she'll be an honest Girl,
For she'll be an honest Girl,
O pretty, pretty Poll.

Poll performs her Parts,
With such Grace and Arts,
That each Night she conquers Hearts,
Both in Pits and Boxes;
Then refrain,
Ben't so plain,
Do not stain,
Poll with common Doxies:
For she does charm us all,
For she does charm us all,
O pretty, pretty Poll.

Since Poll has gain'd Applause,
All vindicate her Cause,
And prodigious Crowds she draws,
All conspire to Clap her:
The House rings,
When she sings;
Must such Things
Vanish in a Vapour?
No, she out-shines 'em all,
No, she out-shines 'em all,
O pretty, pretty Poll.

XIV. Irish Howl.

No Power on Earth can e'er divide
The Knot that by true Love is ty'd,
For when a Woman's Love is fix'd,
There is no intruding betwixt.
Oh! oh, ray, oh Amborah—oh, oh, &c.

Then witness all ye Pow'rs above,
Sir R--- F--- I dearly love;
And will my Mind on him employ,
Who shall continue my sweetest Joy.
Oh! oh, ray, oh Amborah—oh, oh, &c.

So here my Opera I do end,
With loving of my dearest Friend;
And beg that he'd not me forget,
Nor think that I have him quite left.
Oh! oh, ray, oh Amborah—oh, oh, &c.

[_]

[This Work will be continued.

The End of the First Part.