 | The Fall of Bob : or, The Oracle of Gin |  |
3
ACT I.
SCENE the Street.Poet SCRUBB booted, in a shabby Riding Dress.
Despair is pictur'd in each Face I meet,
And hollow Groans are heard in ev'ry Street;
Distillers Shops, of Dirt and Mirth the Scene,
Are hush'd as Death, their Floors and Counters clean:
Shreeks of desponding Matrons wound the Air,
And drooping Car-Men, seem oppress'd with Care.
Sure some Disaster terrible, as strange,
Has, in my Absence, wrought this dreadful Change.
And hollow Groans are heard in ev'ry Street;
Distillers Shops, of Dirt and Mirth the Scene,
Are hush'd as Death, their Floors and Counters clean:
Shreeks of desponding Matrons wound the Air,
And drooping Car-Men, seem oppress'd with Care.
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Has, in my Absence, wrought this dreadful Change.
But see old Funk, the Cobler, comes this Way.
His Looks as gloomy, as a Winter's Day:
Like all I've met, he seems with Grief oppress'd,
And Sighs to Sighs, succeeding, rend his Breast.
His Looks as gloomy, as a Winter's Day:
Like all I've met, he seems with Grief oppress'd,
And Sighs to Sighs, succeeding, rend his Breast.
Enter Funk.
O! 'tis nobly done, ye envious Great
To bring, yourselves, such Ruin on the State!
We now believe a Nero fir'd Rome,
And ripp'd, with unconcern, his Mother's Womb;
For ye have prov'd, by this your Fel Decree
That there are Monsters greater yet than he.
Oh piercing Sorrow; Quintessence of Grief,
O Woe of Woes: O woe beyond Relief,
Philosophy must sink beneath this Stroke,
Enough to cleave, not Hearts of Men but Oak.
Scrub.
Say, Friendly Funk, whence springs thy sad Complaint
Why are thy Looks so wan; thy Voice so faint?
Why, in full Tide of Day, ha'st left thy Stall,
And thrown aside thy Ends, thy Last, thy Awl?
Why does thy Whistling cease; and say, O why
Is Horror seated in thy down cast Eye?
Funk.
And art thou Stranger to th'oppressing Woe,
Which gives our Breasts to heave, our Eyes to flow;
Which like the melting Snows, from Alpine Hills,
Swell to a Torrent's Rage the peaceful Rills,
Then with a rapid, and resistless Force,
Triumphing ov'r what e'er would check their Course,
They proudly sweep along, diffusing wide
O'er all the Plains th'inexorable Tide;
Herds, Flocks and Villages become its Prey,
And by the Deluge, all are swept away?
No Wonder then I'm careless of my Stall,
Since like Destruction, is decreed for all.
Scrub.
But still thou wreck'st me, say; what is the Cause?
Funk.
Thus, when curs'd Jealousy th'unhappy gnaws,
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What, when discover'd, robs his Peace of Mind.
The ill, I cannot name, do thou divine,
And, by thy Grief, add double Weight to mine.
Scrub.
No hostile Sword invades the British State?
Funk.
That Ill wou'd, chiefly, fall upon the Great:
Entrench'd, in Poverty, secure we'd lie
And see Confusion, with a careless Eye.
Scrub.
Has the Bank broke, or does th'Exchequer fail,
Sheep take the Rot, or Popery prevail?
Funk.
These Ills, indeed, a slight Concern might give,
But are inferior to the Ill we grieve,
Scrub.
No Fire, I hope—
Funk.
Should Cities blaze, our Class can little lose:
Who goes half Bare-Foot, may as well want Shoes.
Scrub.
In Price, does Cow-heel rise; or Gibraltar,
Does Spain demand, with Menaces of War?
Funk.
Cow-heel, is cheap, as even thou coud'st, wish,
The Great, as yet, are Strangers to the Dish.
Of Gibraltar, so well the Weight we know,
No Threats, from Spain, will make us let it go:
But—were that lost, and with it Port-Mahoon
Thou'lt weep a greater Loss, I fear, too soon.
But Lo, thy Liveretta comes; no more
The Blooming gentle Fair, she was before.
View her sunk Eyes, behold her fallen Jaws,
Her matted Hair, her Rags, her Pace, her Straws,
Which are the sad Effects, of—a much sadder Cause.
I cannot bear the Sight, my Heart will rise,
And all my Mother Stream into my Eyes
[Exit.
Scrub.
What Cause cou'd bring such Desolation on
In six Weeks Time, the most I have been gone
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I.
It was in the Christmas Week,When my Granny she sate by the Fire,
She sent me to buy an Ox-Cheek,
And I fell with it all in the Mire.
II.
Come buy a Sheeps Head or a LiverBuy my fresh Lights for your Cat,
But boil all the Lights that you give her,
Wou'd you have her a Match for a Rat.
O my Liveretta; O! my enchanting Fair.
Liv.
Stand off—and give Sublimity more Air,
Ha! I shou'd know Thee—yes, I know Thee well,
Thou bought'st, our Votes, and did'st thy Suffrage sell;
With Gold and Fawning did'st our Favour win,
And damnd'st us all, in damning of our Gin:
Thus Satan's said to deal with simple Witches,
Who truck their Souls for transitory Riches.
Scrub.
Alass! thou know'st me not—
Liv.
I know Thee not! do'st thou not Weekly shew,
Tho starv'd by Want, we yet in Riches flow;
Tho' by each Nation, rifled, aw'd and spurn'd,
By us, alone, the Scale of Pow'r is turn'd;
Tho' by Corruption, we're no longer free,
You Weekly preach, that Chains are Liberty:
Yes, Mother Osborn, thou'rt within our ken,
We know thy Venal Soul, and prostituted Pen.
Scrub.
Still, still you err—
Liv.
Ha! Thou art Caleb, for I know thy waddle,
And bent to win the Horse, or lose the Saddle,
Most furiously, for Common-Wealth thou driv'st,
And for an Oligarchy vainly striv'st:
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Believe me it is more than up and ride;
The Art of Governing's not known to all,
Remember Phaeton, and dread his Fall.
[Exit.
Scrub.
What mighty Ill can thus distract her Soul,
And banish Reason, far as Pole from Pole.
[a dead Sound of Cleavers and Marrow-Bones.
What melancholy Sound is this I hear,
Which, mix'd with Groans, rings dreadful in my Ear!
[loud Groans and Shreeks behind the Scenes.
Horror, where 'ere I turn, affronts my Eyes
And fills my Heart with Terror and Surprize.
Enter. A March of Butchers with Marrow-Bones and Cleavers, the Latter cover'd with black Crape follow'd by Men and Women, two and two, the Men with Mourning Hat-Bands and white Handkerchiefs at their Eyes, the Women with Crape over their Faces, and their Hair loose; they march round the Stage, the Butchers beating a dead March, when they front the Audience, Bavius Orator of Grub-Street advance.
Bav.
This grateful Sorrow shewn by streaming Eyes,
Those hollow Groans, which make your Bosoms rise;
This doleful Dress, and still more doleful Face,
Your dreadful Musick and your Solemn Pace,
Do well the Greatness of our Loss express
And speak the Sorrows which our Souls oppress,
Tho' had we Pow'r but equal to our Grief
In childish Tears, we wou'd not seek Relief.
No; as from Jove, the redden'd Bolt should fly
And liquid Light'ning scorch the spangled Sky;
My dreadful Thunder o'er the welkin rowl
And shake the nether World from Pole to Pole.
I'd move those Rocks, which bound old Neptune in,
And Deluge shou'd revenge the Loss of Gin.
Scrub.
(Aside)
A Tremor siezes on my Heart; those Words
Are worse than Famine, Pestilence or Swords.
[All the Assistants groan.
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But lest Revenge on Britain shou'd prove vain,
And she gain Pow'r by the extended Main,
My forked Light'nings shou'd her Fleet consume,
And all her Nobles find a watry Tomb.
Omnes.
—Oh—Oh—Oh—Oh—Alass! alass! and then
Hang them all up, that they may dry again.
Funk
[advancing.]
The Story's sad; but yet, let me advise,
The Proverb says be merry, but be wise;
If we shou'd burn the Fleet,—mind—we shou'd render
A Passage safe, to Pope and to Pretender:
The Protestant Religion then wou'd be,
As ev'ry one may judge, in Jeopardy:
And that wou'd prove, next to the Loss of Gin,
A grievous Ill, if not a crying Sin,
Omnes.
No, by no Means, let us not burn the Fleet.
Bav.
To check my Light'nings then you think it meet?
Stitch
[advancing.]
Oh! of all Love; and, Bavius, if you please,
Be not too rash, in letting in the Seas;
Let the Rocks stand.—
Bav.
Leave Nature on her Hooks?
Steel the Butcher.
Nor drown our Nobles;—some are in my Books.
Woman.
Oh! do not thunder, Bavius, for I swear
When e'er it thunders, I'm half dead with Fear.
Bav.
Not thunder Woman! by the Gods above,
I'll thunder louder than the Thund'rer Jove.
[A Noise of Frying Pans.
What mournful Sounds are these which wound the Air?
Enter one.
A Message Mævius brings you from Rag-Fair.
[Mævius preceeded by three Frying Pans hung with Crape.
Mævius.
With Sorrow this, with Grief this Hand replete,
Ye Grub-Street Sages, am I sent to meet,
Since Bums have driv'n their darling Scrub away,
The Rag-Fair Chiefs, have pitch'd on me, this Day,
Both in their Names, and friendly Words to greet
Ye Fellow-Sufferers of the fam'd Grub-Street,
Where Phœbus keeps his Court, the Muses fix their Seat.
Our present Woe, I own, I scarce can bear,
Suppress my Sighs, or check the ready Tear;
Groans driv'n by Groans, and Sighs push'd on by Sighs,
Are upwards forc'd, and strike the Azure Skies.
When Friends now meet, they on each other stare,
Their Silence loudly speaks their Load of Care,
And Looks, amaz'd, dart Terror and Despair.
Ye Grub-Street Sages, am I sent to meet,
Since Bums have driv'n their darling Scrub away,
The Rag-Fair Chiefs, have pitch'd on me, this Day,
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Ye Fellow-Sufferers of the fam'd Grub-Street,
Where Phœbus keeps his Court, the Muses fix their Seat.
Our present Woe, I own, I scarce can bear,
Suppress my Sighs, or check the ready Tear;
Groans driv'n by Groans, and Sighs push'd on by Sighs,
Are upwards forc'd, and strike the Azure Skies.
When Friends now meet, they on each other stare,
Their Silence loudly speaks their Load of Care,
And Looks, amaz'd, dart Terror and Despair.
Thus Rome, when Brennus, with his conqu'ring Gauls,
Thro' Italy had pierc'd, and forc'd her Walls,
Saw Matrons flying with dishevell'd Hair
Wounding with dreadful Shrieks the ambient Air
Her gen'rous Senate saw in Curules plac'd,
Despising Life, with glorious Wounds defac'd.
Thro' Italy had pierc'd, and forc'd her Walls,
Saw Matrons flying with dishevell'd Hair
Wounding with dreadful Shrieks the ambient Air
Her gen'rous Senate saw in Curules plac'd,
Despising Life, with glorious Wounds defac'd.
So when an Infant does its Rattle lose,
Or teazing Fools deprive it of new Shoes,
Its Breast is swell'd, and Floods of briny Tears
Speak its oppressing Grief, or racking Fears.
Or teazing Fools deprive it of new Shoes,
Its Breast is swell'd, and Floods of briny Tears
Speak its oppressing Grief, or racking Fears.
That by your Aid, we all may find Relief,
At least, may ease the Burthen of our Grief,
I'm bid to say, that Sages of known Worth,
Cow-Cross, St. Giles's, Thieving-Lane, send forth,
Who with the wisest of the Borough meet
The Field-Lane Chiefs, and Leaders of our Street:
These in a Corps, your Wisdom understood,
Beg you will join them for the Publick Good;
The Mint and Drury-Lane will add their Care,
The Place of Meeting pitch'd on, is Rag-Fair.
At least, may ease the Burthen of our Grief,
I'm bid to say, that Sages of known Worth,
Cow-Cross, St. Giles's, Thieving-Lane, send forth,
Who with the wisest of the Borough meet
The Field-Lane Chiefs, and Leaders of our Street:
These in a Corps, your Wisdom understood,
Beg you will join them for the Publick Good;
The Mint and Drury-Lane will add their Care,
The Place of Meeting pitch'd on, is Rag-Fair.
Bav.
Your Message does us Honour: lead the Way,
It is not just we make the Council stay.
Mæv.
Ye Frying-pans, with solemn Steps precede.
Bav.
Our doleful March the Marrow-bones shall lead.
[Exeunt in Procession.
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solus.
Is then inspiring Gin, at length, deny'd,
And must this Spring of Wit and Mirth be dry'd!
The Rash, with Gin, were cautious, Cowards stout;
Hunger was dampt, and piercing Cold shut out.
Inspir'd by Gin, I patiently have born,
The Stings of Poverty, and rich Fools scorn;
Reflected on the shifting Scene of Things,
Contemn'd the wicked Great, and pity'd Kings:
For Time, still changing, raises and casts down,
Kings sink in Slaves, Slaves, rise to wear a Crown.
At Tyburn, Mortimer was forc'd from Day,
Yet, did his Seed the English Scepter sway.
My Spirits rais'd, my Blood by Gin made warm,
I cou'd defy the surly'st Winter Storm;
This only Comfort gone, what is there here,
Is worth a Wish, or can engage my Care?
Now Liveretta's lost—I'll not complain,
For Sorrow, equally, and Rage are vain:
Death will soon end my melancholy Story,
And Crop the happiest in his Height of Glory.
End of the first Act.
| The Fall of Bob : or, The Oracle of Gin | |