 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
CHORUS OF BUBBLE BUYERS
“When these practisers come to the last decoction,
blow, blow, puff, puff, and all flies in fumo. Poor wretches!
I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss
of time and money: for these may be restored by industry:
but to be a fool born is a disease incurable.”
Ben Jonson's Volpone.
Oh! where are the hopes we have met in a morning,
As we hustled and bustled around Capel Court?
When we laughed at the croakers that bade us take warning,
Who once were our scorn and now make us their sport.
As we hustled and bustled around Capel Court?
When we laughed at the croakers that bade us take warning,
Who once were our scorn and now make us their sport.
Oh! where are the regions where well-paid inspectors
Found metals omnigenous streaked and emboss'd?
So kindly bought for us by honest directors,
Who charged us but three times as much as they cost.
Found metals omnigenous streaked and emboss'd?
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Who charged us but three times as much as they cost.
Oh! where are the riches that bubbled like fountains,
In places we neither could utter nor spell,
A thousand miles inland mid untrodden mountains,
Where silver and gold grew like heath and blue-bell?
In places we neither could utter nor spell,
A thousand miles inland mid untrodden mountains,
Where silver and gold grew like heath and blue-bell?
Oh! where are the lakes overflowing with treasure?
The gold-dust that rolled in each torrent and stream?
The mines that held water by cubic-mile measure,
So easily pumped up by portable steam?
The gold-dust that rolled in each torrent and stream?
The mines that held water by cubic-mile measure,
So easily pumped up by portable steam?
That water our prospects a damp could not throw on;
We had only a million-horse power to prepare,
Make a thousand-mile road for the engine to go on,
And send coals from Newcastle to boil it when there.
We had only a million-horse power to prepare,
Make a thousand-mile road for the engine to go on,
And send coals from Newcastle to boil it when there.
Oh! where are the bridges to span the Atlantic?
Oh! where is the gas to illumine the poles?
They came to our visions; that makes us half frantic:
They came to our pockets; that touches our souls.
Oh! where is the gas to illumine the poles?
They came to our visions; that makes us half frantic:
They came to our pockets; that touches our souls.
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Oh! there is the seat of most exquisite feeling:
The first pair of nerves to the pocket doth dive:
A wound in our hearts would be no time in healing,
But a wound in our pockets how can we survive?
The first pair of nerves to the pocket doth dive:
A wound in our hearts would be no time in healing,
But a wound in our pockets how can we survive?
Now curst be the projects, and curst the projectors,
And curst be the bubbles before us that rolled,
Which, bursting, have left us like desolate spectres,
Bewailing our bodies of paper and gold.
And curst be the bubbles before us that rolled,
Which, bursting, have left us like desolate spectres,
Bewailing our bodies of paper and gold.
For what is a man but his coat and his breeches,
His plate and his linen, his land and his house?
Oh! we had been men had we won our mock riches,
But now we are ghosts, each as poor as a mouse.
His plate and his linen, his land and his house?
Oh! we had been men had we won our mock riches,
But now we are ghosts, each as poor as a mouse.
But shades as we are, we, with shadowy bubbles,
When the midnight bell tolls will through Capel Court glide,
And the dream of the Jew shall be turmoils and troubles,
When he sees each pale ghost on its bubble astride.
When the midnight bell tolls will through Capel Court glide,
And the dream of the Jew shall be turmoils and troubles,
When he sees each pale ghost on its bubble astride.
And the lecturing Scots that upheld the delusion,
By prating of paper, and wealth, and free trade,
Shall see us by night to their awe and confusion,
Grim phantoms of wrath that shall never be laid.
By prating of paper, and wealth, and free trade,
Shall see us by night to their awe and confusion,
Grim phantoms of wrath that shall never be laid.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |