 | Fancy's Festivals |  |
Actus primus.
Enter Poetry.[Poetry.]
A mask? at a minutes warning? the Scene undesign'd,
the Speakers imperfect, the Masquers
unready, the Dancers disorder'd, the Songs unset,
the Musick uncertain, the house full, the
Poets head empty, Invention under-foot, and
Expectation on tiptoe? All these links together
make up a chain of rare impossibilities, or a large Bill of
impossible Items, whose sum-total amounts to—
Gentlemen, you have all lost your labours, and I am sorry
they could make choice of no other emissary but my self to
administer to you this empty entertainment, especiall since I
see such a firmament of bright Ladies like to lose their longings.
But the grand occasion of this confusion issues from
the motley humours of the Masquers, and their dissenting in
Fancy; one forsooth would have a Masque of Satyrs, another
a dance of Devils, a third something in honour of Citizens,
a fourth a Scene of Souldiers; this would have fools,
that would have mad-men; one doth purpose to have no
speeches, another speeches to no purpose; And in the middle
of this Medley, after Invitation had made a progress to all
their acquaintance, and Honor would not admit of a retreit,
they expose the whole model of it to my design, and at such
a barren season when I am not furnished with Invention
enough for the posie of a Ring, or a verse for the Bell-man:
This impossibility premised, I must humbly desire you to favour
the fault; convert your expectation to patience, and at
your own leisure depart, and devote your selvs to some Recreations
of more certainty:
Which will be (let me see) some six weeks hence.
Offers to go off.
Enter Verity.
Verity.
Why how now Poetry? whither go you?
Poetry.
Your name is Verity I think?
Ver.
Tis true.
Poetry.
The Queen of Truth, I wonder to see you
On Earth agen, and in this City too:
Ver.
Why came you from Parnassus?
Poe.
To scape harms,
They say that Ignorance hat took up Arms
Against the Muses.
Ver.
But what make you here.
Poe.
I'm studying of a Mask.
Ver.
Let me appear
In your design, I shall enrich your Rhimes,
Tis royal to speak truth.
Poe.
Not at all times:
They say Truth seeks no corners, but be it known,
If I should speak it, I must finde out one.
Ver.
What do they speak of me?
Poe.
They say your rules
Are onely fit for Children and for fools.
Ver.
Say you so too?
Poe.
Not for the world; to me
You are the onely precious Deity;
But in a Mask ('las) we shall but abuse ye,
'Twere fit some holier place would oftner use ye,
Tis shrewdly fear'd in many a sacred seat,
That your white hand is onely counterfeit.
Ver.
Then I'le desist, for I shall but disease you,
Enter Fancy in a Robe of divers colours, with a great belly.
Here comes a Lady that will better please you.
Poe.
Tis Madam Fancy, in a luckier time
Thou couldst ne'r come, since Reason mixt with Rhime;
Great with Invention as I live; let me
Feels her belly.
Dear Fancy but express my Midwifrie.
Fan.
Twil be abortive.
Poe.
Hast thou pangs? that smile
Presages well, prethee sit down a while,
Thou canst not want a help in such a case,
Since there's so many Ladies here in place;
Good Verity come hold her back.
Ver.
I finde
When Fancy's working, Truth must come behinde.
Like a good moral Madam.
Fan.
All you do
Will come to nothing.
Poet.
Fansie! help me now,
Or I shall I lose my Name, my Fame, my Honor,
Fan. laughs.
She laughs out-right, her throws come thick upon her.
Let the Spheres sing some Dialogue-like Song,
That may fit Fansie, and do Truth no wrong.
SONG.
1. voyce.
Fansie tell me, can thy youth
Any way compare with Truth?
2. voy.
No, but I would have you know it,
Fansie best becomes the Poet.
Chor.
Verity doth brightest move,
In Religion, or in Love.
2. voy.
Can a Stage the Truth secure,
When the Pulpit is impure?
1. voy.
Is't not fit that Truth should spring,
And grow up in every thing?
Chor.
Truth may move in every part,
But a Politians heart.
Fan.
Ha, ha, ha.
Fancy riseth out of the Chair, and drops a bundle of Masking toyes, and two Papers.
Poet.
Her very torments tickle her, this throw
Delivers her, 'tis done; what is it trow?
What hath Fate sent us here, let me peruse?
Ribons, Bells, bawbles, Masks, and dancing shooes?
Here are two papers too, this is the Plot,
And this the language 'tis but small God wot;
A hasty labour, and, I fear, will be
Onely a tittle 'bove a Timpanie;
We'l tak't as 'tis, and so must you,—begin,
Verity.
Stay, I'le have my Scœne first now I am in.
Poetry.
With all my heart.
Ver.
Though pride and envy scoff,
I'le bring you on.
Fan.
Agreed, I'le bring you off.
Ver.
Thus I charm the Scœne, appear
Great and lovely, chaste and clear;
That which all the world excells.
The Scene being drawn discovereth upon an Imperial Throne the seven Nations of Christendome, all distinctly habited, & on the highest ascent Cupid sitteth alone.
From this Royal Throne doth come
The great Lights of Christendome;
Nations renown'd in Peace, and fam'd in Wars,
Good Poetry give them their Characters:
Poetry.
What must I do't without premeditation?
Verity.
Yes, yes, you know Extempore's in fashion.
The Englishman descends.
Poetry.
The first of these that enters in the Van,
Should (by his posture) be an Englishman,
A noble Islander, and one whose parts
Are fill'd with Love and Honour, Arms and Arts;
Much blest with plenty, if the peevish Elf,
Could but forbear to quarrel with himself.
The Englishman danceth, and having taken up his station, the Scottishman descendeth.
What is the next that enters in my view,
The bonny Scot, whose Bonnet is true blew?
Gude mawraw for au day, a hardy Nation,
Although it seems (by some mens approbation,
Whose judgements are much above mine advanc'd)
Of late, he had better have sate still then danc'd.
The Scotchman having danced, and come into his figure, the Frenchman descendeth.
What have we here? the Frenchman? 'tis he sure,
He looks so brisk, Tres humble Serviture;
A witty Nation, that hath gain'd applause,
Not onely for delights, but wholsome Laws,
And bears so many pretty toyes about him,
The English cannot dress themselvs without him.
The Frenchman having danced a Corant, and come into a a figure, the Italian descendeth in a melancholy Posture, playing on a Lute.
Declares him dedicate to Loves devotion?
'Tis the Italian, he that disputes
Abroad with Turks, at home with Love and Lutes;
Who though by Cupid in this posture hurl'd,
His Vocal Musick vyes with all the World.
The Italian having danced, the Irishman descendeth.
Oh hone! Oh hone! poor Shon lost all his houses,
Here's Cork and Tallow in a pair of Trowses,
The Idle Irishman, who avoids harms,
Much better by his legs, then by his Arms;
For he doth flye (as by his feet you'l find)
Like Mountain Snow blown by the Northern wind.
The Irishman danceth, after he is come to his figure, the Dutchman descendeth half drunk.
What Goblin have we here, whose belly struts,
As if he had a Navy in his guts?
'Tis not the Dutchman; yes, tis he I see,
That stagger clears the dubiosity;
Ha lustick! he is come too, to delight ye,
From Poor distressed unto High and Mighty.
After the Dutchman hath danced, and is come to his station, the Spaniard descendeth with his Castinetto's upon his thumbs.
Here comes the haughty Spaniard, now give way,
Room for the Infantry, he must display
His footing too, He is a Nation which,
Is Constant, Learned, Valiant, and Rich,
Who now the better to delight his friends,
Hath brought his Fiddles at his fingers ends.
They all dance together, and seem in every Change to quarrel one with another; they all draw their Swords, and begin to menace, until Cupid standing on the supream Seat of the Throne shooteth an Arrow amongst them, and immediately descendeth in person; they all bow to Cupid, and imbrace each other; they dance some few Changes more, expressing amicable department, then Cupid having seated himself on the most eminent ascent of the Throne, they all orderly ascend after him.
How like you this?
Fancy.
Not much amiss.
Poetry.
What now?
Fancy.
I have a handsome fancy in my brow,
Which if it take effect, and all hit right,
Shall fit your Genius with a new delight.
Poetry.
Go on, and as your faculty affords
Projections, mine shall put them into words;
In the mean time I hope these persons will,
Connive at our deficiencies of skill,
And cast their bright indulgent eyes upon
The errours of our Recreation.
Heark in your eare.
Fancy.
No, I know what you mean.
Poetry.
Advance your Musick, and obscure the Scene.
The Scene closeth. A Symphony is played. Poetry goeth off, with Verity at his right hand and Fancy at his left.
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