 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
263
EPILOGUE, TO COX'S OPERA OF ROKEBY.
SPOKEN BY BARNES, PLACIDE, AND HILSON.
Enter Barnes, in character of a Physician.Barnes.
Oh, spare your hands—'tis useless, all this blarney,
The play can't live, without a word from Barney:
'Tis like a patient—quacks to death may steam him,
And he is damned, if science don't redeem him.
Grappling with fate, 'tis I alone can part 'em—
Barney will save the piece, secundem artem.
The play can't live, without a word from Barney:
'Tis like a patient—quacks to death may steam him,
And he is damned, if science don't redeem him.
Grappling with fate, 'tis I alone can part 'em—
Barney will save the piece, secundem artem.
Go on—that's right—your smiles are what I'm after—
The best prescription is a roar of laughter;
One hearty laugh, no matter how excited,
May save a life when every hope is blighted.
The best prescription is a roar of laughter;
One hearty laugh, no matter how excited,
May save a life when every hope is blighted.
'Tis true, Placide has got an epilogue,
But 'taint the thing—it don't “go the whole hog;”
So, while he's back there, spelling out each line,
I'll give you an extrumpery of mine;
Original throughout—no one has read it—
So, if you have a tear, prepare to shed it.
But 'taint the thing—it don't “go the whole hog;”
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I'll give you an extrumpery of mine;
Original throughout—no one has read it—
So, if you have a tear, prepare to shed it.
“A certain fair one—once, in days of yore—
Caught a bad quinsy, and her throat was sore;
She could not speak, nor swallow, chew nor sup,
She scarcely breathed—the doctors gave her up!
Her weeping friends, in silence, breathed their sighs,
And stood prepared to close her fading eyes!
'Twas at this awful crisis, 'mid the gloom,
Her favorite monkey stole into the room;
With doctor's formal air approached the bed,
Seized hold her wrist, then gravely shook his head!
The droll manœuvre called a smile from death,
And one convulsive laugh restored her breath;
Broke her disorder, let the fair escape,
Who owed her cure alone to Dr. Ape.”
D'ye take?—or must I give your wits a jog?
Stay—here comes Harry, with his epilogue.
Caught a bad quinsy, and her throat was sore;
She could not speak, nor swallow, chew nor sup,
She scarcely breathed—the doctors gave her up!
Her weeping friends, in silence, breathed their sighs,
And stood prepared to close her fading eyes!
'Twas at this awful crisis, 'mid the gloom,
Her favorite monkey stole into the room;
With doctor's formal air approached the bed,
Seized hold her wrist, then gravely shook his head!
The droll manœuvre called a smile from death,
And one convulsive laugh restored her breath;
Broke her disorder, let the fair escape,
Who owed her cure alone to Dr. Ape.”
D'ye take?—or must I give your wits a jog?
Stay—here comes Harry, with his epilogue.
Enter Placide, who comes forward and speaks.
Placide.
“In ancient times, when plighted vows were broken”—
265
You're too late, Hal—the epilogue is spoken.
Placide.
Spoken! By whom?
Barnes.
By me.
Placide.
By you!
Barnes.
'Tis certain.
Placide.
Why 'taint a minute since they dropt the curtain,
And my address a good half hour employs.
Barnes.
I've done the deed—didst thou not hear a noise?
If you attempt, you'll find yourself mistaken;
I made them laugh—that saved the author's bacon.
Placide.
And who bade you display your monkey capers?
The sun requires no aid from farthing tapers—
I saved the piece, sir.
Barnes.
You!
Placide.
My humble talents
Secured the thing's success, and turned the balance;
Or, as Prince Rupert says—“alone I did it!”
It's true, I pledge my honor!
Enter Hilson, speaking.
Hilson.
Heaven, forbid it!
To put so mere a trifle “up the spout!”
Placide.
Hilson, be quiet! I know what I'm about.
266
That tone, my boy, smacks sharply of the acid.
Barnes.
Placide by name, but not exactly placid.
You're somewhat wroth.
Placide.
I am—and shall be wrother—
I'll speak my speech!
Hilson.
Not if you love the author.
Since I have saved his opera, 'twere wrong
To jeopardize it with a speech so long.
Placide.
You saved the opera!
Barnes.
You saved it!
Both.
You!
Hilson.
Yes, I myself alone—you know it's true;
I hit it on the head—and, lest it fail,
Here's a short epilogue, to clinch the nail:
Addressing the Audience.
“When erst the muses, on Parnassus' top,
In mazy dances—”
Barnes.
Prithee, Tommy, stop;
Throw poetry and physic to the dogs,
Nor bore our friends, here, with dull epilogues.
Hilson.
Agreed, old Barney!—and, to end disputes,
The readiest way to harmonize our flutes
Is to admit—so be it understood,
To please our friends we've all done what we could.
267
Placide.
Why, then—
Barnes.
What, then, Placide?
Placide.
They'll take a good intention for the deed.
Hilson.
I'll answer for 't—I know these gen'rous folks,
They 're always laughing at us, or our jokes.
But what of our young author?—Jests nor wit
Won't add a penny to his benefit.
Placide.
His benefit is safe.
Barnes.
What then of Rokeby?
Hilson.
Should that be damned it would a serious joke be.
But see!—there's mercy in each judge's eye—
The bard's acquitted!—Rokeby shall not die!
Placide.
Egad! their plaudits make old Drury shake!
Hilson.
It's just the thing!
Barnes.
I say—“there's no mistake!”
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |