The Tragedy of Tragedies ; Or The Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great

Fielding, Henry (1707-1754)

THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES;

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SCENE III.

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SCENE III.

Tom Thumb, to them with Officers, Prisoners, and Attendants.
King.
Oh! welcome most, most welcome to my Arms,
What Gratitude can thank away the Debt,
Your Valour lays upon me.

Queen.
— Oh! ye Gods!

[Aside.
Thumb.
When I'm not thank'd at all, I'm thank'd enough,
I've done my Duty, and I've done no more.

Queen.
Was ever such a Godlike Creature seen!

[Aside.
King.
Thy Modesty's a Candle to thy Merit,
It shines itself, and shews thy Merit too.
But say, my Boy, where did'st thou leave the Giants?

Thumb.
My Liege, without the Castle Gates they stand,
The Castle Gates too low for their Admittance.

King.
What look they like?

Thumb.
Like Nothing but Themselves.

Queen.
And sure thou art like nothing but thy Self.

King.
Enough! the vast Idea fills my Soul.
[Aside.
I see them, yes, I see them now before me.
The monst'rous, ugly, barb'rous Sons of Whores.

But, Ha! what Form Majestick strikes our Eyes?
So perfect, that it seems to have been drawn
By all the Gods in Council: So fair she is,
That surely at her Birth the Council paus'd,
And then at length cry'd out, This is a Woman!

Thumb.
Then were the Gods mistaken.—She is not
A Woman, but a Giantess—whom we
With much ado, have made a shift to hawl
Within the Town: for she is by a Foot,
Shorter than all her Subject Giants were.

Glum.
We yesterday were both a Queen and Wife,
One hundred thousand Giants own'd our Sway,

Twenty whereof were married to our self.

Queen.
Oh! happy State of Giantism—where Husbands
Like Mushrooms grow, whilst hapless we are forc'd
To be content, nay, happy thought with one.

Glum.
But then to lose them all in one black Day,
That the same Sun, which rising, saw me wife
To Twenty Giants, setting, should behold
Me widow'd of them all.— My worn out Heart,
That Ship, leaks fast, and the great heavy Lading,
My Soul, will quickly sink.

Queen.
—Madam, believe,
I view your Sorrows with a Woman's Eye;
But learn to bear them with what Strength you may,
To-morrow we will have our Grenadiers
Drawn out before you, and you then shall chose
What Husbands you think fit.

Glum.
— Madam, I am
Your most obedient, and most humble Servant.

King.
Think, mighty Princess, think this Court your own,
Nor think the Landlord me, this House my Inn;
Call for whate'er you will, you'll Nothing pay.
I feel a sudden Pain within my Breast,

Nor know I whether it arise from Love,
Or only the Wind-Cholick. Time must shew.
Oh Thumb! What do we to thy Valour owe?
Ask some Reward, great as we can bestow.

Thumb.
I ask not Kingdoms, I can conquer those,
I ask not Money, Money I've enough;
For what I've done, and what I mean to do,
For Giants slain, and Giants yet unborn,
Which I will slay—if this be call'd a Debt,
Take my Receipt in full—I ask but this,
To Sun my self in Huncamunca's Eyes.

King.
Prodigious bold Request.

[Aside.
Queen.
— Be still my Soul.

[Aside.
Thumb.
My Heart is at the Threshold of your Mouth,

And waits its answer there—Oh! do not frown,
I've try'd, to Reason's Tune, to tune my Soul,
But Love did overwind and crack the String.
Tho' Jove in Thunder had cry'd out, You Shan't,
I should have lov'd her still—for oh strange fate,
Then when I lov'd her least, I lov'd her most.

King.
It is resolv'd—the Princess is your own.

Thumb.
Oh! happy, happy, happy, happy, Thumb!

Queen.
Consider, Sir, reward your Soldiers Merit,
But give not Huncamunca to Tom Thumb.

King.
Tom Thumb! Odzooks, my wide extended Realm
Knows not a Name so glorious as Tom Thumb.
Let Macedonia, Alexander boast,
Let Rome her Cæsar's and her Scipio's show,
Her Messieurs France, let Holland boast Mynheers,
Ireland her O's , her Mac's let Scotland boast,
Let England boast no other than Tom Thumb.

Queen.
Tho' greater yet his boasted Merit was,
He shall not have my Daughter, that is Pos'.

King.
Ha! sayst thou Dollalolla?

Queen.
—I say he shan't.

King.
Then by our Royal Self we swear you lye:

Queen.
Who but a Dog, who but a Dog,
Would use me as thou dost. Me, who have lain

These twenty Years so loving by thy Side.
But I will be reveng'd. I'll hang my self,
Then tremble all who did this Match persuade,
For riding on a Cat, from high I'll fall,
And squirt down Royal Vengeance on you all.

Food.
Her Majesty the Queen is in a Passion.

King.
Be she, or be she not—I'll to the Girl
And pave thy Way, oh Thumb—Now, by our self,
We were indeed a pretty King of Clouts,
To truckle to her Will—For when by Force
Or Art the Wife her Husband over-reaches,
Give him the Peticoat, and her the Breeches.

Thumb.

Whisper, ye Winds, that Huncamunca's mine;
Echoes repeat, that Huncamunca's mine!
The dreadful Bus'ness of the War is o'er,
And Beauty, heav'nly Beauty! crowns my Toils,
I've thrown the bloody Garment now aside,
And Hymeneal Sweets invite my Bride.

So when some Chimney-Sweeper, all the Day,
Hath through dark Paths pursu'd the sooty Way,
At Night, to wash his Hands and Face he flies,
And in his t'other Shirt with his Brickdusta lies.

This Figure is in great use among the Tragedians;

'Tis therefore, therefore 'tis.
Victim. I long repent, repent and long again.
Busiris.

A Tragical Exclamation.

This Line is copied verbatim in the Captives.

We find a Candlestick for this Candle in two celebrated Authors;

—Each Star withdraws
His golden Head and burns within the Socket.
Nero. A Soul grown old and sunk into the Socket.
Sebastian.

This Simile occurs very frequently among the Dramatick Writers of both Kinds.

Mr. Lee hath stolen this Thought from our Author;

—This perfect Face, drawn by the Gods in Council,
Which they were long a making.
Lu. Jun. Brut. —At his Birth, the heavenly Council paus'd,
And then at last cry'd out, This is a Man!

Dryden hath improved this Hint to the utmost Perfection:

So perfect, that the very Gods who form'd you, wonder'd
At their own Skill, and cry'd, A lucky Hit
Has mended our Design! Their Envy hindred,
Or you had been Immortal, and a Pattern,
When Heaven would work for Ostentation sake,
To copy out again.
All for Love.

Banks prefers the Works of Michael Angelo to that of the Gods;

A Pattern for the Gods to make a Man by,
Or Michael Angelo to form a Statue.

It is impossible says Mr. W--- sufficiently to admire this natural easy Line.

This Tragedy which in most Points resembles the Antients differs from them in this, that it assigns the same Honour to Lowness of Stature, which they did to Height. The Gods and Heroes in Homer and Virgil are continually described higher by the Head than their Followers, the contrary of which is observ'd by our Author: In short, to exceed on either side is equally admirable, and a Man of three Foot is as wonderful a sight as a Man of nine.

My Blood leaks fast, and the great heavy lading
My Soul will quickly sink.
Mithrid. My Soul is like a Ship.
Injur'd Love.

This well-bred Line seems to be copied in the Persian Princess;

To be your humblest, and most faithful Slave.

This Doubt of the King puts me in mind of a Passage in the Captives, where the Noise of Feet is mistaken for the Rustling of Leaves,

—Methinks I hear
The sound of Feet
No, 'twas the Wind that shook yon Cypress Boughs.

Mr. Dryden seems to have had this Passage in his Eye in the first Page of Love Triumphant.

Don Carlos in the Revenge suns himself in the Charms of his Mistress,

While in the Lustre of her Charms I lay.

A Tragical Phrase much in use

This Speech hath been taken to pieces by several Tragical Authors who seem to have rifled it and shared its Beauties among them.

My Soul waits at the Portal of thy Breast,
To ravish from thy Lips the welcome News.
Anna Bullen. My Soul stands listning at my Ears.
Cyrus the Great. Love to his Tune my jarring Heart would bring,
But Reason overwinds and cracks the String.
D. of Guise. —I should have lov'd,
Tho' Jove in muttering Thunder had forbid it.
New Sophonisba. And when it (my Heart) wild resolves to love no more,
Then is the Triumph of excessive Love.
Ibidem.

Massinissa is one fourth less happy than Tom Thumb.

Oh! happy, happy, happy.
New Sophonisba.

No by my self.
Anna Bullen.

—Who caus'd,
This dreadful Revolution in my Fate,

Ulamar.
Who but a Dog, who but a Dog.

Liberty Asserted.

—A Bride,
Who twenty Years lay loving by your Side.
Banks.

For born upon a Cloud, from high I'll fall,
And rain down Royal Vengeance on you all.
Albion Queen.

An Information very like this we have in the Tragedy of Love, where Cyrus having stormed in the most violent manner, Cyaxares observes very calmly,

Why, Nephew Cyrus—you are mov'd.

'Tis in your Choice,
Love me, or love me not.
Conquest of Granada.

There is not one Beauty in this Charming Speech, but hath been borrowed by almost every Tragick Writer.

University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.