Distress upon Distress : or, Tragedy in True Taste A Heroi-Comi-Parodi-Tragedi-Farcical Burlesque |
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 | Distress upon Distress : or, Tragedy in True Taste |  |
Enter Capriola, and Servant.
Capriola.
Away; go troop, or I will tread your Guts out.
Arietta, o'the Sing-song dirty Trull,
For her neglected?
Servant.
Be but easy, Madam.
Capriola.
And shall a bunting Ballad-singer hold him?
Sooner shall Spaws with Kennel Water flow;
Sooner shall Modesty Preferment gain;
Sooner I'll hang myself, and there's an End on't.
Servant.
Here comes the Lady.
O! the dirty Minx.
Enter Arietta .
Arietta.
Are you the Wench whom they Capriola call?
Capriola.
Yes, Miss Mock-modesty, what then?
Arietta.
—That's all.
Some People are impertinent, 'tis true,
And wou'd rob other People of their Due,
But, Ma'am, excuse me, I don't think 'tis you.
Capriola.
Good lack-a-day, and so they bid me tell you.
If I must talk, it shall be to your Betters.
Your Impudence, all Billingsgate exceeding,
Declares you know not what belongs to Breeding.
Arietta.
Madam, you're humble, but you're so notorious,
I dare not talk, you know the World's censorious.
Shou'd my Friends see me hold you in Discourse ,
I shou'd be thought as bad as you, or worse.
Capriola.
As bad as me! Ill Manners I detest,
Begging your Pardon, you're a nasty Beast.
Have you forgot how high in Drury-Lane,
Drench'd by the Drippings of the drizzling Rain,
On broken Bedstead, deck'd by dirty Rugs,
You nightly snor'd, bit by Blood-loving Bugs?
At Morning's Dawn you left your stinking Flocks,
To foot Silk Stockings, and to mend old Socks;
In Winter Evening, you'd the Parish teaze,
With bak'd Ox Cheek, or calling out grey Pease.
At Midnight strole along the silent Lane,
And draggled, sneak to Garret back again.
Methinks, Ma'am, you are drest in a delicate Taste,
What a Pity it is your Complexion won't last?
How her Cloaths are hung on, and how set is each Feature,
Let me die, but I think you're a comical Creature.
But least the Dispute, by bad Words, should grow long,
I'll the Argument end, Child, and give you a Song.
Enter Jack Handy.
Jack Handy.
Stand clear, make way, bear back, get farther off .
Capriola.
Why, what's the Matter, pray good Captain Puff?
Jack Handy.
Young Squire Fanfly's coming, that's enough.
Fanfly.
At length, my Friends, at last is come the Day,
The long-expected, the long-talk'd-of Day,
This Day of Days; and now we'll make a Night on't .
(Huzza.
Gamble.
Permit me, Squire, to join this happy Cry,
And as I stand on Tiptoe with you joy.
Fanfly.
Tom Gamble, Friend, thy Merit's truly great,
Whether you crack a Joke, or break a Pate;
Flash on his Face, and bleed him at a Blow:
Then o'er the Midnight Glass, I have heard thee speak,
And Puns, like Hiccups, from thy Bosom break:
So like thy Wit, embottl'd Small-beer works,
Flies frothy up, and rumbling bursts the Corks.
And thou, my Beverage, I've seen,
Trip up the nimblest on the Green,
And heard thee in stentorean Sounds,
Out-roar the deep-mouth'd op'ning Hounds:
So have I heard, amidst the Shouts
Of Bonfires, Mobs on Powder Plots,
A snapping Cracker shake the Plain,
And bounce and burst, and bounce again.
Beverage.
But you've done more, what's all that we can show,
To what the Squire has done, or what the Squire may do?
Fanfly.
What I have done? (but 'tis not fair to boast)
Can none remember, and yet sure all must,
How I disputed once with the fam'd Henley ?
Full on my Forehead, thro' the whole Debate,
On Wings of Bats between us Dullness bore,
And common Sense stood trembling at the Door,
Words wav'd on Words, on Nonsense, Nonsense roll'd,
And I myself appear'd the greatest Scold.
Arietta
comes forward.
O Arietta, O my warbling Dear,
Whose Voice is sweeter than the tuneful Sound
Of well-match'd Beagles, op'ning in full Cry;
Thy Eyes are brighter than the Glow-worms Light,
Thy Cheeks are redder than the ripen'd Peach,
Suffer thy Swain those fragrant Fruits to reach.
Capriola goes between.
Capriola.
That I forbid, nay, start not, Sir, 'tis I.
Turn this Way, Squire, this Way cast your Eye .
SONG.
While languishing Love fill'd our Eyes,
You murmuring swore, you'd be true to my Charms,
And sealed it with short-broken Sighs .
Bravo, my Life, my lovely Arietta,
There—there's my Purse, if you want Money, take it,
But take not me, for I am all Arietta's.
Sooner shall Jews sly Jesuits become,
And Presbyterians kiss the Toe of Rome.
Wits follow Whitfield, Whores adore plain Dealing.
St. Giles's to St. James's shall remove,
Sooner than I'll neglect this Lady's Love.
Squire, stand off, I'll—O thou saucy Slut,
E'er I bear this, I'll—Let me go, Sirrah.
Arietta.
What wou'd Capriola's Mutton-Fist be at?
Capriola.
Your negro Nose, Arietta, that is flat.
Fanfly.
So pendant cross a Line, I've oft seen hung,
Two tail-ty'd Cats, and spitting as they swung;
Teeth gnash with Teeth, with Talons, Talons jar,
'Till scratching ends this caterwauling War.
Capriola.
Where shall the wretched Capriola waddle?
Upon Misfortunes now I sit a-straddle .
Will you not kiss me, Squire?
Fanfly.
Fiddle faddle.
Arietta.
Your Absence, Madam, will prevent Reproach,
Will you walk off, or will you have a Coach?
Trollop, 'tis well, at length, my ebbing Pride
Returns again, swift as a high Spring-Tide:
And by this Box, this Pinchbeck-Box, I swear ;
Which never more this Pinch of Snuff shall share,
I, unconcern'd, Inconstancy can bear.
I'll take a Link myself and light you Home;
Nay, make your Bed, and sweep you out your Room:
But first a Pound of Gun-powder I'd buy,
Under the Bed it secretly shou'd lye;
Then take a Match, and to repay this Evil,
I'll blow you both together to the Devil.
(Throws Snuff in Arietta's Face, and exit.
Arietta.
O, Squire Fanfly, I am almost choak'd;
How cou'd you leave me for a Slut so saucy?
How did you get her? tell me; I'll forgive you.
So I will.
Once on a Time, past Twelve o'Clock at Night,
When ev'ry Lamp was out, and at each Stand
The drowsy Watchman snor'd thro' the dark Street;
No Flambeaux-blazing Chariot flash'd along,
But gloomy Night in humdrum Silence mop'd;
Disguis'd with Drink, and for a Frolick fit;
By Help of Ladder raised to mend the Roof,
Hap'ly I stole, unheeded, to her Garret.
Beverage.
'Twas lucky, tho' you did not break your Bones.
Fanfly.
So it was.
I found the sleepy, trapish, tipling, Fair,
Snoring, supinely, on a three-legg'd Chair.
A ragged Stocking hid one tawny Fist,
Drawn, like a Muffatee, a-down her Wrist.
Drop'd by her Side lay diff'rent colour'd Yarn,
With which the industrious Nymph was wont to darn.
A twinkling Light within the Socket gleam'd;
I reel'd to reach it, and the Damsel scream'd:
I snatch'd the Fair, half-waking, to my Breast;
And then; but mum, I must not tell the rest .
O, the dear Rake, the lovely midnight Rogue;
O, I could jump into a Ditch to meet thee,
And wander with thee in a Winter's Rain.
Let pimpled Prudes on Citron Waters dote,
And may stale Maids their sleek-comb'd Lap-dogs love;
For thee, my Dear, Imperial Tea I'd spill,
Forgo the Fashion, and forget Quadrille.
Fanfly.
Here this Coquets, curse on your Constitutions,
My Heart dances a Hornpipe;
I am I know not how; but when 'tis Night
I will do—what I will.
Arietta.
And so you shall.
Go now, and take a Bottle with your Friends;
But stay not late, nor come not, Love, in Liquor.
Like the poor Turtle I shall sit forlorn,
Waiting to welcome you, and have the Bed warm'd.
(Exit.
Enter Sybilla the Governess.
Governess.
Sir, if you please, a Word or two with you.
Fanfly.
Madam, your humble Servant; how do you do.
Well, Sir, I thank you, and hope you're so too.
Fanfly.
Here! bring some Wine.
Governess.
I'll drink none as I live.
Fanfly.
Pray, Lady fair, one single Glass receive.
Governess.
No; pray excuse me.
Fanfly.
Pray excuse me, Ma'am.
One single Glass can never do you Harm.
Governess.
Well, Squire, I vow you're such another Man—!
I'm quite confounded; but, since here I am,
And I must drink, my Dear, I'll drink a Dram.
(Drinks.
But to my Purpose, Sir, you are to know,
Since my poor Husband's Death, who left me low;
Tho', little did he think it wou'd be so;
I've kept a Boarding-School, 'tis now three Years,
To shew young Misses Plain-work, and their Pray'rs.
I form their female Minds, I mend their Tastes,
Teach them to read, and raise the various Pastes;
The Lawn to flourish, and to skim the Cream.
Amidst the pretty, prattl'ing, playing, Fair,
(By their kind Parents trusted to my Care,)
There's one Miss Languish, handsome, on my Word,
And rich enough to make a Man a Lord
Fanfly.
For me, perhaps.
Governess.
Perhaps so—Lack-a-day.
Yet who knows that; for, as some Folks will say,
We'are gone To-morrow, tho' we're here To-day.
All our first Bread we're certain where we eat;
The Wisest knows not where his last he'll get;
For tho' we're born we are not bury'd yet.
But to my Purpose; tho', as I was saying,
Miss Molly Languish; well, a-lack-a-day;
Indeed, 'tis Pity; so, indeed, you'll say:
And all for what? Why, for a Husband truly:
But how do you think all this is brought about,
Why Love and Murder always will come out,
As my Spouse us'd to say—that's without Doubt .
Fanfly.
What's this to me, Ma'am?
Governess.
Why, Sir, you shall hear.
There is a Fellow that belongs to you,
Who, like a Peacock, struts and makes a Shew,
Has turn'd her Head, and makes her talk of Wedlock;
Of losing Maidenheads, and merry Christ'nings:
This Fellow follows us from Street to Street,
Winks thro' the Windows, ogles her incessant;
At Meals at Home, on Sunday at the Church;
No Place is free, he frights me with his Stares,
He spoils our Dinner, and disturbs our Prayers.
Fanfly.
What is his Name?
Governess.
Spunge, Sir, I think, he's call'd.
Go, somebody, and seek him.
Beverage.
Here he comes, unlook'd for.
Enter Spunge, drunk.
Fanfly.
O, come hither Scoundrel:
You spunging, shifting, sharking, shuffling Wretch,
Who, Spaniel-like, at well-fill'd Tables waits.—
Governess.
Ay, Mr. what d'ye call'm; marry come up—
Fanfly.
Nay, give me Leave, Madam. Hark ye, Sirrah.
How dare you?
Spunge.
Be fuddl'd, I presume:
Why, I have been drinking Bumpers to your Health,
And, if you grudge it, Sir, why then, good-bye to you.
Hold, Sir, take one Glass more before you go .
(Throws Wine in his Face.
Spunge.
How soon you see a modest Man is dash'd ,
It's damn'd ungen'rous tho', to give me Wine ,
And hit me in the Teeth with it.
Fanfly.
You'll go a Courting, will you, courting Ladies!
Governess.
Ay, and fine Ladies too! Meat for his Master.
Spunge.
Had I been sober, tho' you are a Squire,
You had not dared to strike me.
Dared not, damn you.
Spunge.
Damn you; no, you dare not.
Fanfly.
Give me a Horsewhip, Cane, a Mop, or Beesom.
Gamble.
O Sir, have Patience
Fanfly.
Preach Patience to your Creditors, you Block-head :
Where is the Scoundrel?
Spunge.
Who is it you mean?
Fanfly.
Go to the Pump you Sloven, and get clean.
Go pump him, that will wash him, for he wants it .
(Hits a Mop in his Face.
Spunge.
Be warn'd, ye Youths, ye ever-thirsty Souls,
Who fond of Frolicks, doat on midnight Bowls;
How wretched is the Man who loves to prate:
If you can work; O! stick to what your Trade is,
Strong Liquors leave, and making Love to Ladies.
(Carried off.
Fanfly.
Wou'd ye, fair Maids, our secret Failings scan,
And as you pick your Laces chuse the Man.
Tho' Lace bespangled hides the strong clos'd Seam,
And the Paste Buckles o'er the Instep beam:
Tho' o'er the Hat the Milk-white Feather's spread,
The Plumy Play-Thing shades a brainless Head.
Did ye but know the gay embroider'd Coat
Oft cloaths a Coxcomb, oft conceals a Sot.
But 'tis in vain, fatally fond of Shew,
You see, and sigh in Secret—Heav'ns! a Beau
You wish to wed—and often after find
A rotten Carcase and a wretched Mind.
Splendid thus monumental Marbles shine,
Tho' foul Corruption fills the gorgeous Shrine.
Beverage.
Now, if you please, Sir, we'll go in to Dinner.
Fanfly.
With all my Heart, Tom Beverage, make some Punch :
Like Cæsar, Cyrus, or like any other.
But why shou'd I of any other tell,
None but myself can be my Parallel :
Then, like myself, exalted will I stand,
With a Pint Bumper in my lifted Hand;
Time, Life's worst Load, in Liquor shall be lost,
And at each Glass we'll sacrifice a Toast:
Noctural Rites, uncheck'd by saucy Care,
To Joy-inspiring Bacchus we'll prepare;
God of good Fellow, Vintage-blessing Power,
O beam propitious on our social Hour,
With smiling Bowls we'll laugh the Night away;
We'll love Tomorrow, but get drunk To-day.
This is a Scene of Altercation. I cannot help reminding the Reader of the Diversity of Scenes, Stiles, and Similes in this elaborate Performance. And herein I follow the Steps of the Editor of Mr. Pope's Works, who has pointed out to every Reader, all the Species of Writing, the Author of the Essay on Man used in the latter Part of that Poem, doubting, or despising the Capacities of his Readers; or else imagining, that Philosophy and Poetry are always to be examined by classical Scale and Compass, like the Mathematician, who only read Virgil, to examine by the Map, how, Navigator-like, he had conducted Æneas in his Voyage. H. H.
Here you have in this Line, the whole Exercise of the Levee.
Ist. Stand clear. The great Man rises to go to his Coach.
2d. Make way. The Dependants are drawn up on each Side.
3d. Bear back. They squeeze against the Wainscot.
4th. Get farther off. Those who have forgot to see the Porter, and forced to stand on the Outside of the Door, now must leave lounging against the Rails.
However queer it is to be kicked, and though it may not be pleasing to feel, it is to see, since it is practised on the Stage with great Applause. H. H.
Think not, Reader, I am intending to ridicule the Tastes of an Audience, or imagine they cannot distinguish. Far be it from me, to hint at such a Falsity: But I would fain have the Actors never endeavour at Applause, by any Buffoonery, or debase the Dignity of Nature, by uncouth Grimace, and supply the Want of true Humour with farcical Face-making. H. H.
How to make Night of Day, I cannot reconcile this Line. I have often, indeed, heard Persons talk of making a Night on't; and out of Curiosity, I once went to see some Spirits perform; but they made nothing on't, unless making one another drunk could be termed making any Thing. P. P.
Vulgarly called Orator. Vide Dunciad. I have heard the Author of this Parody several Times disputed with him. If so, I really think he has very truly depicted himself. H. H.
This is a Parody on the Speech of Alexander the Great.
Can none remember? Yes sure all must.When Glory, like a dazzling Eagle, stood
Perch'd on my Beaver, in the Granic Flood,
When Fortune's Self, my Standard trembling bore,
And the pale Fates stood frighted on the Shore,
When the Immortals on the Billows rode,
And I myself appear'd the leading God.
This Way cast your Eye.
It will be very proper for the Gentlemen and Ladies of the Theatre, the younger Sort I mean, to be very perfect in this Exercise of the Eye, and also in the verticular Motion of the Head. For it is common Practice among them, to talk to the Pit, more than to the Performer that's along with them; and also, when they are spoke to, it is proper for them to seem to mind what is said, and not, while a Description is related to them, or any Story that affects the Personage they represent, be looking round the Audience for their Acquaintance, &c. P. P.
Love fill'd our Eyes—Nonsense—Loving filling the Eyes, and Murmurs, and short-broken Sighs. These are all unnatural Phrases, fit only for Novel-Writers, &c.
It is now several Years since my first Cohabitation with my Wedlock-joined Friend, and though Nature calls for a Satisfaction of carnal Appetite, Posterity for an Increase of Inhabitants, and even Marriage-Laws demand fulfilling, I never met with any of the above-mentioned Languishings. They are heterogeneous to the Improvement of our Species, and since we are commanded to increase, we should go about to obey that Precept, as Philosophers, as Scholars, and as wise Men ought to do, soberly and cooly, as we should take off a Glass of Wine, not madly and voraciously, as intoxicating Epicures swallow Pint-Bumpers. P. P.
Whitfield, an itinerant Field-preacher, who was followed by Multitudes of both Sexes, whose weak Minds were startled by the terrible Anathemas he vociferously thundered against them. He set himself as a Refiner of the Christian Religion, in a Manner repugnant to all Rules of Decency, Morality, or good Manners.
N. B. These Things happened at a Time when the Works of Boyle, Barrow, Lock, and Tillotson, lay unheeded, on Dust-fill'd Shelves, and within a few Years of that remarkable Æra, called the Year of the Bottle-Conjurer.
This is a very pertinent Simile, to sit a-straddle upon Misfortune, i. e. to ride the wooden Horse of Adversity.
Pinchbeck—Pinchdeck'd Box it should be. It means to deck it with a Pinch of Snuff, or to be deck'd with a Pinch of Snuff. H. H.
Whether it should be deck'd, or no, I cannot tell certainly, since greater Men than me have been divided about using that Word: For, in the Tempest, Act I. Scene the Second, there is the Word deck'd, according to Mr. Theobalds.
Who deck'd with Tears the Sea.
Oxford Edit. Brack'd with Tears the Sea, i. e. made the Salt-water brackish.
Warburton. Mock'd with Tears the Sea.
Dr. Bentley. Stock'd with Tears the Sea.
I say, repugnantibus omnibus, it should be, flock'd, i. e. the Tears flock'd to the Sea. P. P.
To make a Man—then Spunge should say, O Lord! It is a natural Exclamation of a Man much indebted himself, upon hearing of a Woman who would, make a Man, to break out into such a surprize—O Lord—For the Future therefore it must be thus;
------ handsome, on my Word,And rich enough to make a Man.
Spunge.
—Oh Lord!
P. P.
Most Wit.
These are the three Degrees of Comparison in Wit. The first Degree is the Hum, i. e. endeavouring to impose on the Credulous, e. g. He says, he will give him another Glass of Wine; but, how does he give it? The other stands ready to take it; but how does he take it?
The second Degree of Wit consists in the Action of throwing a Glass of Wine. This may be properly called, Wit-pantomimical, just like throwing Tobacco-pipes out of a Joke, burning Waiters Wigs in Fun, scorching the Shoes of their sleey Companion, or blackening his Face, or hiding his Pocket-book.
The third is, the Paranomasia, or Pun, to dash and hit.
| Distress upon Distress : or, Tragedy in True Taste | |