 | Poor Vulcan |  |
SCENE I.
A Saloon supported by Clouds, with a Table, Bottles, Glasses, Bowls, &c. where Bacchus, Jupiter, Apollo, Mars, and Mercury, are sitting, singing Catches and Glees.CATCH.
Join your right hands, to your glasses, boys,
And let the bowl go round.
And let the bowl go round.
Fill a bumper—higher,
Steady, steady,
Let mirth abound.
Steady, steady,
Let mirth abound.
Charge your glasses—poise,
Recover! make ready!
Present! fire!
Recover! make ready!
Present! fire!
2
Jupiter.
Bravo, my boys! bravo! bravissimo!
Charming! delightful! exquisitissimo!
Apollo, boy, tip us your manus;
How went our fortes and pianos?
Apollo.
All right; but, I say, bully hector,
Why don't you push about the nectar?
Bacchus.
That's right, my worthies, charge your glasses:
Come, give us one of your absent lasses.
[To Mars.
Mars.
Here's Venus,
Jupiter.
—Zounds, that's à-propos,
The strangest thing's fallen out: d'ye know
Vulcan's gone mad—
Mercury.
—That's no great wonder.
Jupiter.
'Tis true, or may I never thunder:
Horn mad!
3
—The fool!
Mercury.
—Oh, dear, Oh, dear!
Apollo.
Tell us the story.
Jupiter.
—You shall hear.
[Takes a petition from his pocket.
AIR.
The humble prayer and petition
Of Vulcan, who his sad condition,
In hopes of satisfaction meeting,
To the God Jupiter sends greeting.
Of Vulcan, who his sad condition,
In hopes of satisfaction meeting,
To the God Jupiter sends greeting.
That your petitioner has a wife,
The plague and torment of his life;
That prudent, kind, and constant wishing her,
Humbly sets forth your said petitioner,
That might they but reside on earth,
The many ills that hence have birth,
Would then subside, and Mars, Adonis,
And divers others of her cronies,
At distance, all his cares might end,
And she, his wife, take up and mend:
To this request don't say him nay,
And your petitioner shall ever pray.
The plague and torment of his life;
That prudent, kind, and constant wishing her,
Humbly sets forth your said petitioner,
That might they but reside on earth,
The many ills that hence have birth,
Would then subside, and Mars, Adonis,
And divers others of her cronies,
At distance, all his cares might end,
And she, his wife, take up and mend:
To this request don't say him nay,
And your petitioner shall ever pray.
4
Mars.
And have you your permission given?
Jupiter.
Yes, yes, they're bundled out of heaven;
The Cyclops—he—one of the graces,
And she, in a stage-cloud, took places;
Which diligence soon set them down
Hard by an English country town.
I took a twinkle through the ether,
And saw them settled all together.
ACCOMPANIED.
Vulcan, no more; but, goodman Crump—
Here, you behold his anvil thump;
While Venus, where good souls carouse,
Hight Maudlin, keeps a public house.
Here, you behold his anvil thump;
While Venus, where good souls carouse,
Hight Maudlin, keeps a public house.
RECITATIVE.
Mars.
Zounds! to what end?
Jupiter.
—Good bully Mars,
To furnish subject for a farce.
Suppose to earth we make descent,
And plague them for their discontent;
Some mortal shape let each assume,
5
I'll be a serjeant with my drum.
Bacchus.
I, an exciseman.
‘Adonis.
‘—I, a swain,
‘Will pipe and whistle o'er the plain.’
Jupiter.
A country 'squire, the stag I'll follow,
And echo rouze with whoop and hollow;
Thus Vulcan all his pranks we'll tell of,
And make the black know when he's well off;
But first let's roar another chorus,
And drain the nectar that's before us.
GLEE.
Those mortals say right, in their jovial abodes,
That a glass of good punch is the drink of the gods.
Take only a smack of
The nectar we crack of
You'll find it is punch and no more;
The ingredients they mingle,
Are contraries single,
So are ours, they're the elements four.
Then, Bacchus, for thou art the drunkard's protector,
Issue instant a fiat,
And let who dare deny it,
That nectar's good punch, and that good punch is nectar.
That a glass of good punch is the drink of the gods.
Take only a smack of
The nectar we crack of
You'll find it is punch and no more;
The ingredients they mingle,
Are contraries single,
So are ours, they're the elements four.
Then, Bacchus, for thou art the drunkard's protector,
Issue instant a fiat,
And let who dare deny it,
That nectar's good punch, and that good punch is nectar.
[Exeunt.
| Poor Vulcan | |