 | The Plot |  |
SCENE, The Street.
Enter the Troop of French Comedians.
[Drum beats.]
Tradgetitive.
1 Wom.
Here, Monsieur, at length we come,
But yet so poor as when at home.
Vat you propose now? Vat you do?
To get us Hoop, Mardi and Shoe?
De Case is now, ma Foy, ver hard.
2 Wom.
But hold, Je connois, Monsieur Vard,
He bring vone Day, two Pill to me,
Dat put me quite in Ecstasy,
And cure sometime ma Gueuserie.
1 Wom.
His Pill, dey say, vill cure de Poor,
Dere's few in England now so more;
But if nor Pill, nor Drop shou'd do't,
We'll kiss some noble Lady's Foot.
‘Lay in de way, for dem to tread,
‘Hang on her Coats, and plead for Bread.
‘Trembling approach vid downcast Eyes,
‘And speak vid intercepting Sighs,
‘Swear we depend upon her Breat,
‘Which can alone give Life or Deat.
AIR VIII.
Tradgetitive.
Arle.
Begar, me take no Pill, no Drop,
Me vaite vid Patience for de Crop.
Me ave come here one time before,
And me be den, as now—ver poor.
2 Wom.
Dere be Lors, great Vits, Monsieur,
Vill starve de Englis, de bon Cœur,
Dey'll let dem walk vid empty Poche,
And us, mes Cheres, dey'll put in Coach.
1 Wom.
Oh Ventre gris! but dat is just,
Me in mi Lores vill put my Trust.
AIR IX. O rare Show.
Arle.
‘Have you not seen a dusky Day,
‘Scarce diff'ring from a Night,
‘When Clouds deny'd a friendly Ray,
‘By intercepting Light?
Chorus.
A very pretty Fancy, a fine Gallanty Show, &c.
[Arle.]
‘Ave you not seen these Clouds dispell'd,
‘The glorious Sun appear,
‘The Mists like Rebels fly de Field,
‘Who awful Justice fear?
Chorus.
‘Ve'll make de pretty Fancy, vid fine Gallanty Show,
‘Sell Nonsense come from Fransey, tout Nouveau.
[Arle.]
‘Thus, we who are beneath a Cloud,
‘Shall like the Sun break fort,
‘The Lors our Theatre will crowd,
‘Drawn by our innate Wort.
Chorus.
‘A very pretty, &c.
[Arle.]
Dere Players shall before us fly,
And starve like Englis Dogs;
'Tis we who are de serene Sky,
But dey de noisome Fogs.
Chorus.
A very pretty, &c.
[Arle.]
De Vrens Acteur in good England,
May his own Fortune carve;
Dey pay for vat none understand,
While Englis Players starve.
Chorus.
A very pretty, &c.
[Arle.]
De Englis of us have got de Odds,
Ma Chere, in Complaisance:
Dey treat our Scum like little Gods,
We chase der Scum from France.
Chorus.
To France ven we return again,
We'll be great Lors, and dey poor Men;
Der playing Sense dey'll find is vain,
We'll down vid Rish and Drury-Lane.
A very pretty, &c.
[Exeunt.
Enter the Troop of French Comedians.
[Drum beats.]
Tradgetitive.
1 Wom.
Here, Monsieur, at length we come,
But yet so poor as when at home.
Vat you propose now? Vat you do?
To get us Hoop, Mardi and Shoe?
De Case is now, ma Foy, ver hard.
2 Wom.
But hold, Je connois, Monsieur Vard,
He bring vone Day, two Pill to me,
Dat put me quite in Ecstasy,
And cure sometime ma Gueuserie.
1 Wom.
His Pill, dey say, vill cure de Poor,
Dere's few in England now so more;
24
We'll kiss some noble Lady's Foot.
‘Lay in de way, for dem to tread,
‘Hang on her Coats, and plead for Bread.
‘Trembling approach vid downcast Eyes,
‘And speak vid intercepting Sighs,
‘Swear we depend upon her Breat,
‘Which can alone give Life or Deat.
AIR VIII.
Vy shou'd de Englis grumble
Ve Vrens folk be caress'd;
Great Lords reward de Humble,
De Sawcy dey detest.
Ve Vrens folk be caress'd;
Great Lords reward de Humble,
De Sawcy dey detest.
De Spaniel's fed at Table,
Nay, in de Lady's Lap;
De Mastiff in de Stable,
Vid only Bone and Scrap.
Nay, in de Lady's Lap;
De Mastiff in de Stable,
Vid only Bone and Scrap.
Tradgetitive.
Arle.
Begar, me take no Pill, no Drop,
Me vaite vid Patience for de Crop.
Me ave come here one time before,
And me be den, as now—ver poor.
25
Dere be Lors, great Vits, Monsieur,
Vill starve de Englis, de bon Cœur,
Dey'll let dem walk vid empty Poche,
And us, mes Cheres, dey'll put in Coach.
1 Wom.
Oh Ventre gris! but dat is just,
Me in mi Lores vill put my Trust.
AIR IX. O rare Show.
Arle.
‘Have you not seen a dusky Day,
‘Scarce diff'ring from a Night,
‘When Clouds deny'd a friendly Ray,
‘By intercepting Light?
Chorus.
A very pretty Fancy, a fine Gallanty Show, &c.
26
‘Ave you not seen these Clouds dispell'd,
‘The glorious Sun appear,
‘The Mists like Rebels fly de Field,
‘Who awful Justice fear?
Chorus.
‘Ve'll make de pretty Fancy, vid fine Gallanty Show,
‘Sell Nonsense come from Fransey, tout Nouveau.
[Arle.]
‘Thus, we who are beneath a Cloud,
‘Shall like the Sun break fort,
‘The Lors our Theatre will crowd,
‘Drawn by our innate Wort.
Chorus.
‘A very pretty, &c.
[Arle.]
Dere Players shall before us fly,
And starve like Englis Dogs;
'Tis we who are de serene Sky,
But dey de noisome Fogs.
Chorus.
A very pretty, &c.
[Arle.]
De Vrens Acteur in good England,
May his own Fortune carve;
Dey pay for vat none understand,
While Englis Players starve.
Chorus.
A very pretty, &c.
27
De Englis of us have got de Odds,
Ma Chere, in Complaisance:
Dey treat our Scum like little Gods,
We chase der Scum from France.
Chorus.
To France ven we return again,
We'll be great Lors, and dey poor Men;
Der playing Sense dey'll find is vain,
We'll down vid Rish and Drury-Lane.
A very pretty, &c.
[Exeunt.
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