The Two Queens of Brentford : or, Bayes no Poetaster a Musical Farce, or Comical Opera |
 | 1. | ACT I. |
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| 2. |
 | 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
 | The Two Queens of Brentford : or, Bayes no Poetaster |  |
ACT I.
Scene I.
The outside of the Playhouse.Enter Smith, Johnson and Chanter.
Smith.
Is he there, think ye?
Chant.
I tell ye he is. As we were
drinking our Coffee, I saw him go by,
and turn down Vinegar-Yard, to get by
the Narrow Passage; I have sent one
to him, you shall see him bolt immediately.
Prithee Jack Smith excuse me, I shall ne'er have Patience,
I shall rail again.
Smith.
Nay, nay, a pox on thee, hast not thou promis'd
to make me amends by Patience this Morning? for as Will
Chanter has made it out, by thy hurrying me away, we lost
the best part of our Diversion yesterday.
John.
A Plague on him, he has given me the Spleen so,
with the confounded Dialogue between the Eclipses, the
Sun, the Moon, and his Terra firma, with the terrible noise
of the Hobbyhorse Battel, that I shall only increase it; for I
expect no other Diversion, but such Fooleries, therefore
prithee excuse me.
Smith.
Faith, Sir, I shall not, you have solemnly ingaged
to keep me Company this Morning; and I as solemnly
expect it: Besides, Chanter tells me, that the last part of the
Rehearsal is more divertive than all the rest.
Chant.
Oh, 'tis most certain the musical part of it is
most entertaining; 'tis a kind of Comical Opera; and the diversity
of Humours, as well as other solemn Parts you'll
find, will be very pleasant.
Smith.
D'ye hear, Supercillium, d'ye hear? egad we shall be
so merry—I warrant thou'lt laugh till thy Stomach akes.
John.
I fear I shall rather be apt to ease my Stomach another
way.
Chant.
No, no, there's something in't will please, I warrant
ye, if you can have Patience; I have got one of the
Songs in't ready set; I think I have it about me,—you shall
hear it,
[Searches for it.
od'slife I'm prevented—here he comes.
Enter Bayes.
Bayes.
Any body here would speak with me?
Chant.
Your Servant, Mr. Bayes; yes, Sir, 'twas I that sent
in t'ye.
Bayes.
For what, Pray Sir?
Chant.
Why, Sir, Mr. Smith, here and his Country Friend,
desir'd me to introduce 'em once more, to beg your Pardon.
Smith.
Which we do with all our Hearts, faith, Mr. Bayes;
look sneakingly and be hang'd.
[Aside to Johnson.
D'sdeath that damn'd
squeamish Phiz will spoil all again.
Bayes.
Oh—your humble—Gentlemen, your Servant
Mr. a—Pardon; what they are come to spoil another
Rehearsal, are they? Yesterday's last Act, and the Musick
were quite lost; I endeavour'd by running, to call ye back
ha! ha—but 'twas in vain, ha! ha! ha! ha!
Chant.
Ah—Sir! they are now extreamly sensible of it.
Bayes.
Look'e, Sir, I shall require at least a Week's time
to believe that; in the mean time, to my Knowledge, they
have lost the Town considerable Diversion, for this Day;
for the Play was to have been acted, and the Places all
taken—Pray, Sir, what amends can your Country Worship
[To Johnson.
make 'em for that?
Smith.
Ah—No, no, Sir, 'tis impossible; A plague of
all Business; why you must know, Sir, that he's involv'd
in an impertinent Suit of Law, and was yesterday (which he
had forgot) to have a Tryal at Bar, for the Recovery of
4000 l. Was not it, Johnson, tell Mr. Bayes? Pox on ye,
speak something.
[Aside.
John.
What a Devil should I speak?—Tell your Lies
your self, since y'are so good at it—You have begun
rarely.
[Aside.
Smith.
Chanter, help out—
Chant.
His feeing the Law Tongue-pads has so doz'd
him, that on my Conscience he has forgot his own Cause,
which might have been carry'd, no doubt, as well without
him—but he would now fain recover the Reputation of
being counted a Wit, by a fresh Judgment of your Piece,
here, Sir.
Smith.
He has been begging us all this Morning to bring
him, tho' he's asham'd to speak himself; has not he, Chanter?
Chant.
Yes, Sir, he has been teizing us horribly—to be
admitted.
John.
So, these Rakes have given admirable Proofs, that
lying will choak no body—that I'll say for 'em.
[Aside.
Bayes.
Counted a Wit, did you say, Mr. a ha, ha, ha; No,
no, let him despond, let him despair of that Ifaith; for he that to
follow the Trifle of four thousand Pounds, could leave
such an invaluable Enjoyment as this was, take it from
me, on the Word of a Poet, will never arrive at that Title:
But odso, I stand prating here, and the Players stay for me
to begin: Your Servant, Gentlemen, I shall want no Judgments,
no Criticks this Morning.
Smith.
Nay, prithee Bayes, I know thou art good natur'd.
Chant.
Mr. Smith admires the Account I gave him of the
Musick that is to be: And then the Comical Songs come
presently, 'tis a Musical Lecture to our Countrymen, we'll
thee in Humour.
[Song here.
Bayes.
Well, as the worthy and famous Sir Bernard Gascoin
said, who on his Death-bed desir'd one to sing; If a
Man were dying he would be pleas'd with this—Well,
let's go then. Come, Critical Sir, for your Friend's Sake,
once more I'll venture a Lash from your Country Satyr—
tholl, loll, loll, loll, loll.
[Sings.
[Exeunt Smith and Johnson, Bayes and Chanter stay behind a little.
Chant.
So, so, I told ye I would bring 'em.
Bayes.
'Tis well: And now prithee, Friend, humour the
Matter as we have agreed on, and as I for my Part will
comically give occasion; which ended, the Jest shall be on
our side, I warrant thee.
Chant.
Never doubt me: I'm instructed.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
The inside of the Playhouse.Enter Belrope and Tokay. Their Parts in their Hands.
Bel.
A News-monger is a modern Character, that we are
sure of; and since 'tis so, I like it well enough for Variety.
Tok.
My French-man too, may prove a Jest, if 'tis rightly
taken; but whether 'tis or no, I'm gone so far, I must do
it now: Oh! here the Author comes.
Enter Bayes, Smith, Johnson and Chanter.
Bayes.
So, Gentlemen, good morrow t'ye—Hey! Scene-keeper,
some Chairs here.
[Chairs brought in.]
Come,
Mr. a—but Consideration. D'ye hear—This Morning's
Work will admit of no trifling Questions.
[To Johnson.
Smith.
Ay, ay, he'll consider, Mr. Bayes.
John.
Faith, I find my Consideration at this time will be
very much inclin'd to repose it self, I slept ill last Night:
[They sit.]
And a Morning's Nap may be very convenient.
Chant.
Nay, prithee.
John.
I have done, Sir—
Bayes.
Come, my Friends, then since you have promis'd
so fairly, you shall once more be diverted: And first, you
shall hear a Comical and Satyrical Prologue—not that
before, but another, which is yet in Suspense, and forbid to
be spoke—A devilish shy Thing, so tickling, and yet so
sharp, ha! ha! ha! but I have one Court Friend, faithful as a
Cherubim, that has promis'd me to get an Order of Council
to have it spoke; he says, the Town sha'n't lose so
much Wit, let the Stockjobbers manage the Senate as they
please.
Smith.
Is't against them? that must please without doubt.
John.
Ay, and some of the Senate will be even with this
Fool, that's without doubt, too.
[Aside.
Chant.
Has it any Name, Mr. Bayes? let's hear, prithee.
No, Sir, we never give these Prologue Rarities
Name—And yet I have one that would fit it
rarely, rarely faith; why look'e, I could call it, The Sham-Mississippi:
Or, The Exchange-Alley-Sharpers, ha, ha, ha;
but 'tis stinging at first, but igad they grow so powerful, that
I dare not venture.
Smith.
Why? if it be smart, the City way, you must
make a Party.
Bayes.
Egad, so I should; a good Body of undone Tradesmen,
if they would stickle hard, would do my Business;
but I consider'd after I begun, and so turn'd it into Complement.
Chant.
Well, prithee Friend let's hear it, there must be
good Humour in't.
Bayes.
Humour! ay, and pleasant Humour too; cutting
as a Razor, for all its Insinuations, Gentlemen; and shaves
all the Nation together: The Lords shake Hands with the
Brokers, and are brotherly familiar; the Ladies smile when
Stock goes well; and when they are disappointed—Ye
shall hear, ye shall hear, Gentlemen; if this do's not get
me Stock, and a Million or two, when the Lines are
consider'd, there is no Consideration in the City, egad.
Smith.
Oh—no doubt on't, no doubt on't, come
begin.
reads in a Paper.
From Callidonian Sense, and artful Pains,
In which th'Oxonian Statesman shew'd his Brains,
I, that for Murder fled, have had the Chance
By Mississippi, to redeem all France.
John.
How, Sir! how, Sir! Callidonian Sense, Murder
and Mississippi: Ounz! had it not been much better to have
brought in a Scotch Pedlar, who knock'd his Hostess on
the Head, for demanding her Reckoning of nine Pence
three Farthings? Would not that have been jocose?
Chant.
Nay, now the Devil's in thee, Johnson, to interrupt
him; he begins very well, faith; pray go on, Sir.
Bayes.
Nay, nay, Sir, if you won't be quiet, the Satyr
shall sleep; 'twill grow resty, 'twill bear no purrings—
I tell ye that, Sir.
Smith.
Oh, prithee don't mind him.
Bayes
reads again.
In spite of want, their Janglings and their Frets,
'Tis we have crown'd their K---g and paid his Debts.
Of Bullion, tho' no Plenty did excel,
We've conjur'd Paper, that has don't as well.
John.
We! We! What we, Mr. Bayes? Who are the
We?
Bayes.
Egad, I won't tell ye—cudgel your Brains for't,
and if you can't find it out, then—presto I say.
Chant.
Oh, he's a Madman.
Bayes
reads again.
And now from fulsom Rake, by trading Plots,
My nasty Maggots, all turn'd serious Thoughts,
I, and great Partner, have in England sped,
The grand South Sea we've politickly bred,
Enrich'd the Peerage, and confounded Trade.
Hum—Mr. Smith, what think ye?
Smith.
Strong, strong, Mr. Bayes, very home that.
Bayes.
It must be so, Sir, it can't be help'd, egad I write
for a Place, I tell ye; I have that in my Head—But to
go on—
Reads again.
Yet thousands still are got, the Gainer's glad;
The Commons are amaz'd, the Lords are mad;
A glorious Peer, of wondrous Wealth I know,
A Million Plumb, all got, the Lord knows how,
A Days he never dines, a Nights he never sleeps.
Sly Brokers at all Hours his Sense controul:
Change-Alley shares his Body and his Soul.
Smith.
Good again—
Bayes
reads again.
The Ladies too in Coach to Brokers run,
The Fair, the Brown, the freckl'd, and the Dun;
Fat Widows smile when dear Stock rises high;
But if the Vote comes that it falls,—they cry
This is the South Sea Fate, no Bilk, no Par;
It cannot prove a Trick, 'tis gone so far.
John.
Ha! ha! ha! enough, enough—prithee, no more
on't—a Trick, why is not all the World there? All Degrees
of People, and all their Stock? How can it be a
Trick?
Bayes.
Ay, but the Satyr, the Satyr, Mr. Smith, ha! ha!
ha! Oonz—he does not understand.
Smith.
No, no—but proceed, proceed, prithee, we'll
have it all, faith—
Shopkeepers mourn, no Debts are to be paid;
Garters and Lords of Rank won't pay their Dues;
They can't be trusted for a Pair of Shoes;
If Dun crys out—my Lord, I shall be broke;
No help, crys he, my Money's all i'th' Stock;
I've scarce enough at this next Bubble-meeting
To pay my Friends, the Brokers, for their Sweating;
Oonz—what a Game is here? Cit crys, with Oaths,
No Money for your Meat, nor for your Cloaths:
Why then, tho' Bubbles spread, and Fish excels,
The Ace of Hearts doll'd off at Tunbridge Wells:
The Royal-Oak, Hazard and Lotteries past
Were ne'er such Bites as this will be at last.
There, Yar---d comes proud and morosely grave,
Who a superiour Wit believes to have;
Prates all the Day, then topes till he gets drunk,
And from Change-Alley meets Rose-Alley Punk.
Then Aub--- G--- to, with Assurances
Can bubble every Cully as they please,
Tho' now the Proclamation gives us Ease.
'Twas such propos'd to th'Commons, and the Lords,
Shavings and Sawdust cast to make deal Boards.
Smith.
Well said, Mr. Bayes, that was a Rub, egad.
Bayes.
Ay, Sir, I think so.
The Tracts are carried best amongst the Jews,
Who work by underhand, and send their Boys,
Not twelve Years old, who spreading plaguy Lies,
Fill up the Road to Garraway's—and stare
With Cole-black Eyes, no Emblem of the Fair;
And busie to buy Stock, that common Evil,
With Garlick-breath the Fragrance of the Devil,
Converse with Fishing-Bubbles, and appear
As if they all had seen the fiftieth Year.
The Quaker quaint, that bustling Babe of Grace,
That buys and sells, and spreads each odious thing
With such a Sound, he makes Change-Alley ring.
Politely sent to state the Weaver's Case,
And prove flower'd Callicoes, that fill our Shoars,
And worn by Dames of Rep' as well as Whores,
Were us'd so much, it turn'd 'em out of Doors.
Nor that East-India Plain-man that durst try
The t'other Spittle Notions to deny,
'Mongst th'Commons, did not half that Clangor raise,
As he at Jonathan's and Garraway's.
No Fish-wife ever could so loudly bawl,
Our Quaker's horrid Din surpass'd 'em all.
Chant.
Ha! ha! ha! faith, Mr. Bayes, that's very humorous too.
Bayes.
Imagines our South Sea—their wily Foe
Laughs at the thriving Game they're playing there,
And wisely does not their Conclusion fear.
No Bubbles, Plots, do from their Pains arise,
The Piece they act is solid Merchandize;
And smile with the Dutch Fishery, who all join
To buy the Bubbles off, with their own Coin.
You'll view their Motions, justly known to rise,
There's something stanch, Gold-dust will please your Sight,
With Teeth of Elephants, large, sound and white.
The South Sea has no Mint for raising Sums,
'Tis a rare Whim they shew, but Bullion comes.
Very well, Mr. Poet, and what Place when the
South Sea has prefer'd ye, do you aim at Court by this, pray?
Bayes.
Why, Sir, if you must know, I think to be Poet
Laureat.
John.
What—and my Lord Chamberlain not your
Friend, and ignorant of your Poetry?—Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Smith.
But the York-buildings is a serious Thing,
Firm, stanch, and must not be a Bubble call'd,
But by the Wise be honour'd and extoll'd:
The Substance of its Worth shall raise its Fame,
When South Sea with Assurances meet Shame,
Tho' now we find it gets the greater Name.
Those out—altho' they rail—are sorry for't:
When Bubbles fell, they gen'rally were glad,
But yet, Stock-getting thousands, makes 'em mad:
The Senate is not wise enough to slight;
No Member rails, when he gets something by't.
The T---s start the Hare, and all are join'd;
Directors, when a Stock does new begin,
Who govern all, won't let a W---g come in.
The Bullion gain'd is always too apply'd
T'indulge the Parties of their own dear Side:
So they'll have all the Money in the Land,
Whilst L---w-C---h snarls, at what the H---h-C---h gain'd.
Smith.
Money must rule, the Devil will have his Day.
And when a Million's by the South Sea got,
You'll find 'tis the Directors T---y Plot.
And now soar on, my Muse, and Prologue Vein,
Let my Conclusion prove a lofty Strain.
A Million's nam'd, but I have found out one,
A South Sea Patron, that so far has gone,
Five Millions to his bulk of Gain does tend,
Which must be clear, at the fam'd Dividend;
If great Change-Alley can shew more such Men,
The Governour must his Commission end.
Rich England will have forty Millions Store,
A Sum, egad, I ne'er knew in't before,
For nothing now gets something every Day;
And solid Sums give the whole Town Content,
As being confirm'd by Act of Parliament.
Smith.
Gad a merry Friend, 'faith, thou hast ended nobly.
Chant.
Bold, and to the Purpose, and, as thou say'st, with
a Whim too.
John.
Oh the Devil, if all this Stuff be a Prologue, what
will the Play be? Oh—
Bayes.
Stuff! prithee pray for a help to thy Understanding:
now, Friend Smith, how the Town will be amaz'd, when
they consult whether this Prologue be a Satyr or a Complement,
ha! ha! ha! there will be the Jest of all, ha! ha!
ha! ha! And now pray see if the Kings are dress'd
[To
the Actors who go out]
and begin. This Act, you must know,
Gentlemen, opens with some other new Characters, which
by the way, let me tell ye, is one of the chiefest Embelishments
a good Play can have; for as nothing is more divertive
than Variety; so to bring in often fine new Characters—
Mr. Smith—hum—
Smith.
Must infallibly, infallibly please, Mr. Bayes.
Chant.
Oh, most certainly.
John.
Yes, yes, a good Character will doubtless please;
but—
Bayes.
But, pray, Sir, no Buts, no Boundings, I beseech
ye; if these are not divertive Characters, why look'e
then I have no Skill in Dramaticks, which the insensible part
of Mankind will hardly allow, I suppose—Come, Mr. Smith,
you are a Man of Candor, you shall judge; for your part,
you will do well to hear Reason, Sir—
[To Johnson.
John.
Yes, Sir—
Chant.
Ha! ha! ha!
Bayes.
Why then, Mr. Smith, to let ye fairly into the Secret
of these new Characters; if you remember Yesterday
in the fourth Act, just before the pleasant Omen of the Eclipses,
and the horrible bloody Battel, which egad were two
excellent Decorations, as ever adorn'd a Tragedy, there was
a notable blustring Scene between Prince Volcius and Prince
Prettiman.
Smith.
Ay, ay, Mr. Bayes, I remember the Scene very
well.
Chant.
And I, the Rant was about a Mistress.
Bayes.
A Mistress, ah! y'are both weak sighted Inspectors,
'faith—No, no, 'twas evident there was a deeper Design
than a Mistress a foot.
Ay, and which considering these are two Conjurers,
they might easily enough have found out.
Bayes.
For 'twas as plain as the Sun, that those ambitious
Princes had plotted the deposing the Usurpers, King
Usher, and King Phiz, to set up themselves; and were then
mystically arguing in Heat, though they talk'd of Mistresses
of their Methods in Stratagem.
Smith.
Say ye so, I confess that was beyond my Reach,
indeed.
Bayes.
Ay, like enough—'tis not every one has this
Head.
John.
No, no, one that has so little in't, 'tis suppos'd.
[Aside.
Bayes.
Now this Conspiracy, like the rest of the World,
has not proved very lucky you must know, for it was soon
after discovered to the two Kings—but by who, think ye?
ha! ha! ha! why by their subtle and sharp-witted Queens—
which said Queens—a—a—
Smith.
Hold, hold, pray, Mr. Bayes—the Queens—
I don't remember through the whole course of your Play,
that the two Kings were ever married.
Bayes.
Why, no Sir, it may be so, there's a Surprize for
ye then, to chew upon first, for perhaps I did not design
you should know—But married they are; and have
Children too, a Son, and a Daughter.
John.
Ay, ay, and one of the Queens big again.
Bayes.
Nay, pray, Sir; the Son a very hopeful young
Prince, the Daughter marvelously fair too, but somewhat
unfortunate in her Shape.
John.
What hump, crooked, or so?
Bayes.
Ay, Sir—her Mother long'd to be grubling in a
Molehill, and she was born with one upon her Back—
Smith.
This is surprising truly, did you expect any Queens,
Chanter?
Chant.
Not I, faith, I took the Kings for a couple of good
honest toping Fellows, that I rather thought inclin'd to keep
two Mistresses.
Bayes.
Oh! did you so, Sir; but you must know that
Virtue in Poetry is my constant Standard; I build and uphold
Legitimate Royalty, I am ever against all spurious
Pretenders.
John.
A devilish Polititian, this Poet, 'twas such as he I
believe that Plato banish'd the Commonwealth.
Bayes.
Besides, I call my Play here by their very Titles,
The two Queens of Brentford; that's enough, I think, to introduce
and to come to my Characters, the Ushers and the Phizgigs,
two strong Parties, though no body knows yet who they
will declare for, (whether the right Kings, the Usurpers, or
the Princes) grow popular, and want a Mouth to vent
themselves by, or else to write for 'em, which Mouth, or
a knavish Scribe, is this first new Character, and he that can
say 'tis a bad one—
Chant.
Oh—a bad one, the Devil's in any one that can.
John.
Oh—confounded—tholl, loll, loll.
[Sings a Piece of a Tune.
Bayes.
In short my Design, ha! ha! ha! ha! is Satyr upon
the News-mongers; besides, there's like to be a good
Plot into the Bargain.
Smith.
Ay, Sir, that's as plain as the Sun, as you say.
Chant.
And that's a very material Thing.
Bayes.
Right, Mr. Chanter, 'tis so—Oh! here they are
come; pray begin the Scene;
[Enter Firebrand Belrope, and
Monsieur Tokay, with Papers in their Hands.]
Look'e, you
may chance to find, Gentlemen, especially if I give a little
hint, that this Firebrand Belrope, has something Enigmatical
in his very Name. Come—I won't pump for a Question,
for I'm sure you have it by your smiling.
John.
The Devil take me if ever I looked graver in my
Life.
Bayes.
As to his Character, he formerly was a Bookworm,
but is now a Merchant in Politicks, beneficially spreading
'em weekly abroad in Penny Papers; a damn'd shrewd Fellow
you'll find him—and privately in the Interest of the
two Princes.
Smith.
Very well, Sir.
John.
Oh—
[Groans.
Bayes.
The t'other there with black Whiskers, is a Foreign
Spy, Secretary here to a Nobleman, and feeds Belrope
there with Foreign Intelligence, to furnish the coxcombly
part of the Town with News; a devilish Fellow
in his Way too, and pumps the Wager-layers and Stockjobbers
in the City confoundedly; ha! ha! ha!—but now
let 'em shew themselves—come, speak.
Bel.
Why there's nothing in this at all, Monsieur, we shall
be duller than the worst of Libels, the Flying Post—Sure
Politicks from the Baltick dwindle mightily.
Bayes.
D'ye hear—observe that, the Baltick.
Look you, Sire, de grand Politique lika de Sea—
have de Ebb, and de Flow—Dere is no Mischeife dat have
stirr from mon Maitre de Embassador here, nor our Party all
de last Week; Patiance, Monsieur, we must have de Patiance.
Bayes.
We must have de Patiance—very well, Mr. a—
He mimicks the French Jargon well enough—Go on,
Sir—
Bel.
Pize on't, this dull Story foisted in here, won't do
neither; odsnigs I must take my old way, and mawl
'em by an impudent Lye or two; I must not let our Party
cease wond'ring, for want of something to amuse 'em;
therefore if ye are drawn dry, we must invent: I have told
'em lately of a design'd Invasion, but a pox on 'em, the
Phizgiggs laugh at that; but however, I must set out more
News, true or false, 'tis all one by Jingoe.
Bayes.
By Jingoe—ah—that's pretty well; but Mr. a
—give me leave to put in a Word; you speak mighty
well, Sir, and are a very pretty Fellow, but methinks you
don't look your part enough.
Bel.
No, Sir—.
Bayes.
No, Sir; methinks you seem to fail in your Grimace;
keep that up, pray, Sir, look it right whatever you do;
that is, to be plain, look as much like a Rogue as ever you
can—Ah! Sir, if you don't look your part, you spoil it,
what say you, Gentlemen?
Smith:
Faith I think as he orders it, his Face becomes
his Character extreamly.
Chant.
Oh! very well, extreamly well; do's it not,
Johnson?
John.
A pox! prithee don't ask me.
Bayes.
Do's it? why then I beg your Pardon, Sir, and
pray go on Monsieur; but hark you, mon Amis.
Tok.
But hark you, mon Amis, you know de two Prince
have entertain us on dere Side, you know likewise, Broder—
Bel.
Well, well, I know likewise, the two Kings having
Notice of their Treason, have sent for 'em, to be examin'd;
but I'll have a Paper out to morrow, to ridicule 'em
for't damnably. The Town shall have its Regalia: The
Coffee-house Gapers, I'm resolv'd, shan't want their Diversion.
Bayes.
Ha, ha, ha, d'ye hear him, Sir, d'ye hear him?
Is not that a Character now of a rare Rogue?
Smith.
A very fine Fellow, truly.
Chant.
Now, Johnson.
Oh Superfine! oh Quintissence!—Pox on ye.
[Aside.
Tokay.
De Treason den being discover, de Prince must be
vor certain pute in de Prison.
Bayes.
Now, now mind, here's a Choakpear for ye.
Bel.
Without doubt, their Female Majesties, by notable
Subtlety, having discovered their Plot to their Husbands—
but—
Bayes.
But—here's a Secret coming, shall cause a Disappointment
for all that.—Oonz, where's Mr. Discipline?
—Now—oh! quick, quick, pray, Mr. a—
[Enter Discipline, with a Pen and Paper.]
You quite ruin
the Scene, if you don't enter Souse upon the Matter—
Quick, quick—pray speak.
Discip.
So, Brother Incendiary, is this your Place for
Politicks, where the two Kings are within three Yards of
ye, sitting in Judgment? 'Dslife, I could hear ye plain into
the Lobby, where I was Writing—Out upon ye, is
this the Discretion of Deputy Statesmen?—Ha, ha, ha;
well, egad I shall have some fresh Matter for my Paper to
morrow however by it: ha, ha, ha,—You Polititians!
ha, ha, ha,
[Points and laughs at 'em. Exit.
Smith.
Humph—Very odd and whimsical; prithee, what
snip snap Fellow is this?
Bayes.
Why this you must know is a notable Observator
on the King's Party against Belrope—A word in your Ear
softly, he's really a Popish Priest, tho' he goes here for a
true Royalist.
Chant.
Oh! the fitter for Politicks, that's certain; but
hark'e; prithee, Friend, what's this Secret, that must hinder
the Prince's Conviction?
Smith.
Ay that, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes.
Why that, Sir, I brought this Fellow in, because
you and the Audience should not know—There's decorum
now, there's Management for ye; that Discovery
is not ripe yet; every thing must have its Time, Mr. Smith:
Go, go, sneak off, Conspirators.
[Exeunt Belrope and
Tokay.]
And now for the first Musick, a little Masque to
amuse the Audience, whose Minds must be harass'd with
this Scene of Politicks—The Design is some Humours in
a Camp—Come flourish, Violins; and then enter a General
Officer, who is suppos'd to be deeply in Love—
Oh! your Servant, Mr.—Come, Sir, pray let's hear your
Noble Voice.
Here the Mask begins.
SONG I.
All her Virgin Glories on,
Brighter than the God of Day,
When the sparkling Atoms play:
Or when Danae, rapt with Gain,
Smil'd to see the Golden Rain;
Or as Læda to be proving
Her fair Swans Luxuriant Loving,
Scatter'd Beauty's Darts around him,
Healing still as they did wound him:
So fresh Beauty still I chang'd,
So, like Jove, I lov'd and rang'd.
But since my Cælia blest our Albion's Shore,
All, all these joyful Freedoms are no more.
Cælia's exalted Wit and Beauty joyn'd,
Cælia's triumphant Greatness of the Mind:
Cælia in her lovely State,
Rare as Nature could create,
Charms me from what I should be
To the Slave of Constancy.
And turn Rover again;
'Tis a Shame for a Man,
With a Sword in his Hand;
That has Hundreds in Store,
To take less than a Score.
I'll plunder the Race; to be constant to one,
Must make me a Coward, and then I'm undone.
Bayes
Sings after him.]
Must make me a Coward, &c.
—Your humble Servant, dear Mr. Leveridge—And so
pray go off, Sir.
[Exit. Singer.
And now enter Robin the Sutler.
Smith.
Well, what think ye now, Johnson?
John.
A plague, this is none of his, I'll be damn'd if he
wrote a Line on't—No, no, this must be stole.
Ha, ha, if you should be mistaken now—
Well, let's hear the rest, what's this Robin he's calling
for?
Bayes.
Why Robin, Robin, Good-fellow Robin, the Devil,
a-pox, where are ye?—Come, come, Sir, the Stage stays
for ye—Now, Gentlemen, to vary the Humour,
[Enter
a Singer.]
and consequently improve Variety; as the last
was lofty, this here is a little light, low Fancy, which Method
of Diversion I resolve to take; high and low, high and
low, low and high, perpetually, like a—
John.
Like a Sowgelder's Horn; there I've helpt ye to a
good Simile, egad,
Smith.
Ha, ha, ha,—Oh, a confounded Simile, don't
mind him, prithee let the Musick go on.
Bayes.
Sir, I don't mind ye, that's in short—And therefore,
Gentlemen, as I said, this is to be a low Humour—
he's Sutler, you must know, to the Camp; besides, lately
made a Serjeant; and his merry Song is to give ye a Comical
Account of himself, and some of his Family; come begin,
Robin—
Enter Serjeant.
SONG.
Serj.
Sings.
I.
Three Daughters I had by my Spouse,A black, a brown, a yellow,
That for a Season plagu'd my House
As they by Years grew mellow,
The first would scold, the second Pout,
The third would fling and flounce about,
And make all Day a hideous Rout:
Whilst each did want a Fellow.
Bayes.
Good, pray mind—
[Serj.]
II.
Three forward Fools at last they got,That in the Town liv'd near 'em,
That were for Wedlock piping hot,
So had no cause to fear 'em.
A rank Sweet Singer in the Town,
A Taylor and a grazing Clown,
Soon won 'em, and must wear 'em.
Bayes.
So, observe, pray.
[Serj.]
III.
My eldest Romp with Kid was grown,E'er scarce her Husband kist her,
The Quean came just three Months too soon,
And faith, so did her Sister.
The third that was the Chanter's Spouse,
Was such a plaguy toping Blouze,
She'd sit and Quart by Quart Carowse.
Whilst Day and Night he mist her.
Bayes.
So, good again—
[Serj.]
IV.
The Taylor, plagu'd with Whore and Scold,Was once resolv'd to drown for't,
The Grazier soon his Sheep had sold,
And scamper'd up to Town for't.
The Chanter did so strain his Maw
To chime his tuneless Hum and Haw,
If hang himself his Brethren saw,
Not one would cut him down for't.
Bayes.
So—Ha, ha, ha.
[Serj.]
V.
These goodly Sons of great Regard,All just as wife as loyal,
To help Recruits may well be spar'd,
And aid the Party Royal.
My Daughters, as my Story tells,
Can stitch or knit, or something else,
And I with Pots can ring the Bells:
Thus we shall live with Joy all.
Bayes.
Live with Joy all; Ha, ha, ha,—There's a merry
Rogue for ye now.
[Exit. Singer.
Chant.
Why, Gad, a merry Robin; I see he's a Plain-dealer.
Robin does not stand upon the Honour of his Family,
when Truth's in the Case.
John.
A filthy Bird, indeed! bewray his own Nest, out
upon him!
Bayes.
Come, come, Sir, Robin has a farther Reach in his
Noddle, than I perceive you have in yours; You know I
told you, Friend Smith, before the Song, that he was a Serjeant
as well as a Sutler.
Smith.
Right, Mr. Bayes, you did so—Thank'e
heartily, you remember T. Chanter.
Chant.
Ay, ay.
Bayes.
Why then, to shew ye a Spice of Robin's good Apprehension,
coming to Town himself to follow new Business;
and finding his Rakehelly Sons-in-Law had left his
Daughters, in Revenge procures a Friend of his to drill 'em
in to list amongst the Recruits—Ha, ha, ha, as you found
he gave a hint in his Song.—Odso, here comes one
of 'em, the Sweet Singer, who has just taken the Money,
and is coming from his Captain.—You shall hear his
Humour presently.
[Enter Sweet Singer.]
Come, Sir, when
you please.
I.
We Chanters of the loving Race,Nicknam'd harmonious People,
Do far excel each Meeting-place,
Or House that bears a Steeple.
We preach in Tune, from Morn to Noon,
Of Peace, and Love, and Conscience;
We raise the Voice to swell the Song,
And if it be but loud and long,
'Tis ne'er the worse for Nonsense.
II.
We crow, when we the Sisters move,Like Cock that Hen do's tread, Sir:
And when the Union Note does move,
We sing 'em straight to bed, Sir.
We cant in Rhime, as loud we chime,
As St. Sepulcher's Ringers:
The Bagpipe with its Squeak and Drone,
Or Parish-Clerk, with noteless Tone,
Are Owls to us Sweet Singers.
[Exit.
Ah, just as I would have it—The Notes are
contriv'd so between the Tune of a Psalm, and the old venerable
Ballad of Chevy Chase, that nothing can be more
natural I'm sure.
Smith.
Very queint, and much out of the way, indeed,
Sir.
John.
Of all good Sense and Musick, that I'll say for't.
Chant.
What's here, another of 'em?
Enter Taylor.
Bayes.
Ay, Sir, they must make Haste in now, because
the Act is long; and now, my crusty Sir, I will
make bold to entertain you, as well as Mr. Smith here,
whether you will or no; for this was design'd for none
but those of the finest Taste: This Taylor since his coming
to Town was happily lodg'd in a Garret, opposite to one
of our principal Eunuchs, and having always a good Voice,
has exactly learnt their manner; I have taken care to contrive
the Words to be as full of Sense as any of their best Opera's;
And don't doubt to have this darling Song frequently
in the Mouths of all the Quality (that love these extream
Finesses) in England. Come, the Recitative first, dear
Mr. Pack.
Sings.
From Shopboard rais'd on high in Cross-leg'd Posture,
From Toping off two Pots to raise new Vigour,
I, from my Wedlock am, like Insect roving,
To seek from yon Gay Tuba Rose fresh Odour.
Bayes.
Sweet, sweet—Now the Air—Now mind,
Ah me, poor Lovesick humble Bee.
John.
How! Poet, prithee read right. Lovesick humble
Bee, what a Devil—
Bayes.
Ay, Sir, Lovesick humble Bee—I'll justify it
—Did not you hear him in the Recitative, speak of an
Insect, and pray what more Musical, or capable of Passion
than an humble Bee?
Smith.
By a Figure something may be made on't indeed.
Chant.
Ay, ay, he carps at every thing—pray go on.
Bayes
reads.
That fly o'er Trees so tall and proper,
To meet my tuneful Cowlady,
And hear her sing an Air at Supper,
Ah dearest Cow,
Ah dearest Cow,
Ah dearest, dearest, Cowlady,
Since I by Fate am thine,
Say then, sweet Hum,
Sweet Buz and Hum,
Sweet Hum and Buz, or Buz and Hum,
I ever will be thine.
Ah, if this does not strike the Intellect, farewel all charming
Musick ifaith—I think my self a Disciple now of
old Robin Car, that liv'd at the Temple-Gate; I'm ready to
weep for Joy, egad.
Smith.
Now, Johnson, this I'm sure thou canst not carp
at, for thou wert always an Admirer of the Italian singing.
John.
Why, I like the manner on't well enough.
Chant.
Ay, let the Words be what stuff they will, so
there be but a Manner, any thing will go down—
Ha, ha—
Bayes.
There, thou hast nickt him, faith, there's the right
Taste of the Town—But come, now for the third
Son-in-Law, the Grazier, and then the Act ends—Come,
Grazier, let's hear your Country Ditty, tho' you were not
so happy to enjoy the Effects.
Enter Grazier.
SINGS.
I.
Tho' void of Treasure,
Is form'd by Fate,
The chiefest Pleasure.
Fresh Breezes blowing,
We hear sweet Sounds
Of Oxen lowing.
Our Lambs are bleating,
Which great ones share,
Such joy in Eating!
Our Stock advances,
We're happier than
The King of France is.
II.
When wet and weary,
Then Rosie Jone
Comes from her Dairy.
A Toast and Honey,
Outvies what Lords
Can get for Money.
In earthen Dishes,
And from the Brook
We've store of Fishes.
Then do's us Reason,
Would make a Cat
To talk High-Treason.
III.
If Ears are Cropping,
We value not
Whose Heads are Chopping.
Instead of roaring,
We waste the Night
In Love and Snoaring.
Sweet Sleep is ready,
And Jone i'th' Dark
To me's a Lady.
In sound Embraces,
I laugh at Beaus
Are making Faces.
Bayes.
Ay, gad, and let any of your fine Criticks laugh
at that if he dares.
Smith.
Mighty natural really, Mr. Bayes.
Chant.
How Johnson stares at him—he's a little
Nonplust at this.
Bayes
sings.
I laugh at Beaus are making Faces—Come
now the Country Dance; and then we'll go and see
how they prepare the State-Scene within.
[Dance here.]
Very
well; come, Sirs, now let's walk in a little.
Smith., Chant.
Nay, nay, no flinching, Faith, you shall go.
[Pulling along Johnson.
John.
Pox on ye, are ye never to be tir'd?
| The Two Queens of Brentford : or, Bayes no Poetaster | |