The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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Prologue, to Harry the 5th;
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
Prologue, to Harry the 5th;
intended for Mrs. Woffington, dressed in the new Blue uniform, with Firelock, (and fixed Bayonet) in her Hand.
While fir'd St. George inflames his namesake's nation,
Loyal St. Drury arms, in association.
Quake, ye cow'd French, with your white coats, campaigning,
True blue's the true heart's taste, and fears no staining.
Come, if they dare—Ha! brother soldiers, let 'em, [goes up to, and shakes hands, with one of the Stage Grenadiers.]
You reds, we blues—faith! we'll find means, to sweat 'em.
While these brave lads march north—we, warlike lasses,
Stay, cock'd, and prim'd, at home—to guard our passes.
Death, to their smart Graffins!—Morbleu, we'll jerk 'em;
I, and my Amazons, alone, can work 'em.
Heels over head, smish-smash, the brown rascallions,
And cool the courage of sev'n Pope's battalions!
Well, but 'till danger quits its humble distance,
I'll ground my firelock—and suspend resistance.
[Grounds in the military Posture.]
Loyal St. Drury arms, in association.
Quake, ye cow'd French, with your white coats, campaigning,
True blue's the true heart's taste, and fears no staining.
Come, if they dare—Ha! brother soldiers, let 'em, [goes up to, and shakes hands, with one of the Stage Grenadiers.]
You reds, we blues—faith! we'll find means, to sweat 'em.
116
Stay, cock'd, and prim'd, at home—to guard our passes.
Death, to their smart Graffins!—Morbleu, we'll jerk 'em;
I, and my Amazons, alone, can work 'em.
Heels over head, smish-smash, the brown rascallions,
And cool the courage of sev'n Pope's battalions!
Well, but 'till danger quits its humble distance,
I'll ground my firelock—and suspend resistance.
Ladies—a word—be arm'd against occasion,
Charge your bright eyes—and shoot at French invasion.
Queens of these manly souls, so fam'd for battle,
Laugh at cockaded, henpeck'd, tame, French cattle.
Well may you, conquering beauties! hope to dash 'em,
When their own buff-skin wives claim right to thrash 'em.
'Tis the French
Mode, to cow're, when wedlock chatters,
One scold—can shake their Salic Law—to tatters.
Ne'er flinch—but box their ears; they're men of breeding,
And, when advanc'd on—fam'd, for swift receding.
Charge your bright eyes—and shoot at French invasion.
Queens of these manly souls, so fam'd for battle,
Laugh at cockaded, henpeck'd, tame, French cattle.
Well may you, conquering beauties! hope to dash 'em,
When their own buff-skin wives claim right to thrash 'em.
117
One scold—can shake their Salic Law—to tatters.
Ne'er flinch—but box their ears; they're men of breeding,
And, when advanc'd on—fam'd, for swift receding.
Od's me! I'll wear no needless breeches—hang em!
Coarse, bob-tail'd, canvas petticoats can bang em!
Why should maids fight, be-mann'd, be-bluff'd, be-raked,
The weakest she can do their business naked.
Coarse, bob-tail'd, canvas petticoats can bang em!
Why should maids fight, be-mann'd, be-bluff'd, be-raked,
The weakest she can do their business naked.
Oh! what a day was Agincourt, for Britain!
Stand to the cause, that this brave play was writ on.
Let the false friends, who hide themselves among ye,
Feel, by loud Claps, your country's wrongs have stung ye.
Harry, 'gainst six to one—could hold France to it;
And, pray, Sirs, why not we?—By George, we'll do it.
Odds, to the Brave, are lights, that best display 'em,
The more French Jacks come here, the more we'll pay 'em.
Paltry presumers!—can't they—pert, and handy,
Crop vines, press grapes, and dance, to their own brandy,
But, o'er all Europe, they must needs shift stations,
And shake their wooden shoes, o'er free-born nations,
Stand to the cause, that this brave play was writ on.
Let the false friends, who hide themselves among ye,
Feel, by loud Claps, your country's wrongs have stung ye.
Harry, 'gainst six to one—could hold France to it;
And, pray, Sirs, why not we?—By George, we'll do it.
118
The more French Jacks come here, the more we'll pay 'em.
Paltry presumers!—can't they—pert, and handy,
Crop vines, press grapes, and dance, to their own brandy,
But, o'er all Europe, they must needs shift stations,
And shake their wooden shoes, o'er free-born nations,
As for their friends, and good allies—the Highlands,
Short wint'ry storms rise quick, in all bleak islands,
Oft have they blown—from Caitness point, to Dover,
But, still, the louder blast—the sooner over.
Lifting, to fight, far north, on cool Reflection,
May hurt a female volunteer's complexion.
No matter—Better look as brown, as breezes,
Tann'd, to the foes—like your Mesdames Francoises,
Than blush, for shame, thro' faint, fine cheeks, in Lunnon:
So, Sirs, farewel—I'll march, and take my gun on,
[Takes up her Firelock, and marches off shoulder'd]
Short wint'ry storms rise quick, in all bleak islands,
Oft have they blown—from Caitness point, to Dover,
But, still, the louder blast—the sooner over.
Lifting, to fight, far north, on cool Reflection,
May hurt a female volunteer's complexion.
No matter—Better look as brown, as breezes,
Tann'd, to the foes—like your Mesdames Francoises,
Than blush, for shame, thro' faint, fine cheeks, in Lunnon:
So, Sirs, farewel—I'll march, and take my gun on,
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |