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Distress upon Distress : or, Tragedy in True Taste

A Heroi-Comi-Parodi-Tragedi-Farcical Burlesque
  
  
  

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ACT II.
  
  
  
  
  


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ACT II.

SCENE a Tavern, all sitting round. Governess asleep on one Side.
Fanfly.
Here's to our noble Selves, and those that love us;
All drink it deep, and make the Welkin roar
With Undulation dire. Sound away.
Enter Beverage, Gamble, and Spunge.
How now! Did I not order you shou'd pump that Fellow?

Beverage.
So we wou'd, Sir, but for one cogent Reason.

Fanfly.
What was that?

Beverage.
He would not let us.


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Fanfly.
Oh, oh!

Beverage.
Hear us with Patience, and we'll tell our Tale.

Gamble.
This memorable Day, to After-times,
Shall stand recorded as a Day of Wonders,
While Windows shall with Verse obscene be scratch'd:
While Thieves die sniv'ling in Sternholdian Rhymes;
While the luxurious Rich love Ranelagh;
Or while the Poor on Sunday fill the Fields,
This Deed shall live in Monthly Magazine.

Beverage.
Upright, amidst my Stable-Yard, firm-brac'd
With Iron Hoops; Spoils of well empty'd Casks,
Deep in the Ground transfixed; there stands a Pump,
Well known to Carriers, and to scolding Queans;
Whose Heads have oft beneath the Spout been drench'd :

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Salubrious Stream; for female Tongues a Cure;
At your Command he underneath was plac'd.
My Ostler ready at the Handle stood,
With out-stretch'd Arm; but as we sometimes see
The watching Cat leap on the Mouse surpriz'd,
And grasp her hard; so swift he sideway sprung,
And seized my Servant with athletic Gripe,

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Trip'd up his Heels; then swung him swiftly round,
And souc'd him over Head within the Horse-pond.

Gamble.
Then with a Look, fierce as Bumbailiff's Face,
He grasp'd, with raw-bone Fists, the deep-fixed Pump,
Sqeezing it close, then writhed it too and fro,
From the Foundation loosening, by the Roots
Uplifting tore it, with Herculean Hurl,
Upon the flinty Pavement flung it down;
Horrid to see, and shiver'd it to Splinters.

Fanfly.
Tom Spunge, your Hand—you have been very silly;
But let that pass, no Man is wise at all Times .
That Colt, got by Bay Bolton, I will give you:
In some frequented Inn, I'll set you up,
And for a Sign you shall hang out a Pump;
But now sit down. Tom Beverage sing a Song.

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Shall I get drunk, or shall I not, my Friends:
Let me consider; 'tis a Point precarious.
To drink, or not to drink, that's the Question:
Whether 'tis nobler in a Man to suffer
From Gout, or Dropsy, by outrageous Drinking,
Or prudent arm our Reason 'gainst Debauch,
By Temperance to cure them. Let me think:
If by a social Glass or two, we cure
The Vapours, and elate the Woe-worn Mind;
'Tis a Prescription which ev'ry Wretch should take.
To thirst—to drink—to drink perhaps too much.
Ah! there's the Rub—the Fear of getting drunk
Adorns Sobriety with all its Charms:
Else, who'd Attendance and Dependance feel?
Who'd gloomy sit, on rainy Days, at Home?
By Weather mop'd: Who'd be by Spleen oppress'd?
Or, sorrowing, sigh for an ungrateful Fair?
Bad Luck at Hazard, or worse Luck at Law?
When each, at once, might lay Remembrance dead ,

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Did not the Dread of being sick next Day,
Or the worse Dread of not knowing how to pay,
Puzzle Desire, and make us rather choose
To stay at Home, in Poverty and Thirst,
Than run into Diseases, and in Debt?

Enter Drawer.
Drawer.
An' please your Worship, here's your Huntsman wants you.

Fanfly.
Let him come in.

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Enter Huntsman.
Well, what's the Matter, Sirrah?

Huntsman.
As I sat smoaking in my Landlord's Kitchen ,
I heard a mighty Hollooing in the Streets:
I left my Pipe, and ran to know the Matter.
I saw Capriola in a mighty Hurry,
Heading a Mob, and throwing Money to them:
She brib'd the mercenary Dogs to march
To Charing-Cross, and break Miss Ary's Windows.

Fanfly.
Thus from the Glass, I rise to save my Love,
Go, call a Coach, on Wings of Windmills move;

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Swift as the Bullet, bursting from the Gun,
Rattling like Thunder, thro' the Streets we'll run,
And when we'are there, we'll see what's to be done.

(Exeunt.
 

Been duck'd, it should be, for it implies their Heads were stooped, or bent, under the Pump. Think not, Reader, this Emendation unnecessary, since our best Critics seldom change Words to bettter Purpose, e. g.

Merchant of Venice. Act IV. Scene the Second.

Shapespear. The Danger formerly by me rehears'd.—Spoke by Portia.

Warburton. The Danger formally by me rehears'd.

If you think fit, vide Bentley's Note on the Words sacred and secret in Milton.

Another Alteration here, I beg Leave to insert, of Mr. Warburton's.

Mercutio's Speech of Queen Mab, he says she comes,

In Shape no bigger than an Agate Stone set in a Ring.

Mr. Warburton will have it, In Shade, i. e. like a Comet.

Again, in Coriolanus:

A Volscian tells Meninius, that Coriolanus will front his Revenges with the Groans of old Women.

The Virginal Palms of their Daughters, i. e. the held-up Hands.

The palsied Intercessions of old Dotards.

That is, the Mothers may beg, the Children supplicate, the Fathers intercede in vain.

Mr. Warburton will alter Palms to Pasmes, or pames, from the French Pasmer or Pamer, i. e. Swooning Fits.

Was the learned Critic to be ask'd, What Occasion for Notes on these Places? Could he tell us he made the Text better?—No; more intelligible—no. Why, then all these learned, laborious Annotations—Why, for the same Reason Butchers blow Veal, to make the Commodity swell, and sell better.

Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.—Here, Reader, please to observe by this, and several other Quotations, truly classical, our Author was a Man of great Learning. This I think proper to premise, lest After-ages should dispute whether he had any or no?

As by the famous Play-writer, Shakespear, we have an Example; who several will not allow to have been a Man of any Learning; tho' we must be Men of Learning; ay, and good Learning too, to read him. P. P.

Lay Remembrance dead—Ay, but how—Why, by drinking to be sure, that must be his Meaning.

There is a Line in Shakespear's As you like it, of striking dead, spoke by the Clown, which has been altered, and interpreted, I think, very oddly. The Line is,

It strikes a Man more dead than a great Reckoning in a little Room. The Oxford Edition alters it to a great Reeking in a little Room. Mr. W. denies that, keeps to the original Text, but says, the Line means that the Bill was very extravagant, and every Thing the Guests had, very bad and mean.

So in Edgar's Description of Dover Cliff, the Surge that o'er the idle Pebbles plays. Idle there, Mr. W. says, means barren, uncultivated. Now, would not it do, if we considered them, as idle, to lie still, and let the Water pass over them?

What Occasion for a Note there, and such a forced Interpretation?

Another, as forced an Interpretation of this modern Scholiast, we find on a Line in Love's-Labour lost, Act I. Scene 1.

This Child of Fancy, Mr. W. says, Shakespear calls them, Children of Fancy; not for being beholden to Fancy for their Birth, but because Fancy has its Infancy as well as Manhood.

Vide his Note on Romances at p. 260, at the End of the abovementioned Play.

This Description, I cannot say, requires any Explanation; but as I am not willing the Reader should lose any Observation, especially those that are right-worthy to be read, I shall here offer to his Consideration, one of Mr. W. on the Entrance and Words of a Servant in the Winter's Tale, Act IV. Scene 7.

A Servant tells his Master, that twelve Labourers have made themselves all Men of Hair to dance. Mr. W. observes, that Men of Hair signifies Men nimble, and that the Phrase is taken from Tennis-Balls, because they are stuffed with Hair; so that the Sense is, they are stuffed with Hair.

Now when they enter, it happens they were all dressed like Satyrs, all in shaggy Dresses made of Hair, which was what the Servant meant; but his Interpretation is like the Foreigner's, who mistook the Words under a Sign, Money for live Hair, to signify, Money for living here.

SCENE, a Bed-chamber.
Arietta asleep in a Chair, Ghost walks on with a Candle.
Ghost.
In dismal Ditty, doleful sounding Verse,
I'm sent thy Fall, Arietta, to rehearse.
(Bell tolls.
But hark, the Bellman summons me away,
If I had Time, I had much more to say.

(Exit.

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Arietta.
(Wakes.
Methought I heard a melancholy Tone;
Well, from henceforth I'll never lie alone:
I was a-dream'd, as how a Ghost was here,
My Cap stands right up, and I quake for Fear.
(Noise.
Oh me, what Noise is that?
Oh! 'Squire, 'Squire, 'Squire, 'Squire, 'Squire!
In Straw-fill'd Sty, thus have I heard a Swine
Sigh for her Mate, for her Companion pine;
Send thro' the senseless Pales, her snuffling Groans,
Eccho'd by squeaking Pigs in shriller Tones.

(Goes to the Door, and shrieks.
Enter Capriola, with a Bottle in one Hand, and a Phial in t'other.
Capriola.
At last she's found, now by my best Brocade,
I'll not depart 'till I have sluic'd the Jade .
(Arietta behind the Skreen.

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Come forth, thou Wretch, thou Robber of my Right,
Think not to skreen thee from thy Rival's Sight .

Arietta.
I hear a Voice, coarse as the Fish-Wife's Throat,
Whose Sound was loud as those who Flounders cry,
As harsh as Sand-Boys, or as Brick-Dust Sellers:
Thy foul-mouth'd Tongue, all Billingsgate exceeding,
Declares you know not what belongs to Breeding.


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Capriola.
Trollop, I scorn to force Discourse unto ye,
But hear, ye Slut, come do as I command ye,
Drink me this Bottle off of British Brandy?
Drink it all up, or else, by all my Woes,
Full in your Face this Aquafortis goes.
Be quick, be quick, immediately obey me,
I'll mark you else, Miss, tho' the Squire slay me.

Arietta.
What, wou'd you poison me? Sure, you're but jesting.


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Capriola.
No Words, I charge you; but now pray be tasting.

Arietta.
Let me conjure you, Madam, pray excuse me?
I never wrong'd you, why shou'd you abuse me?
I, like fair Rosamond, in Woodstock Bower,
Am sacrific'd to Eleanor's fierce Power.

Capriola.
Not wrong'd me! O thou tinsel trapish Trull,
O give me Patience, all ye sheepish dull;
Ye hen-peck'd Husbands, and ye oft-kicked Cowards!
No rather give me Rage, remorseless Rage,
Fill with fell Hate, my Breast ye Prudes disgrac'd,
Ye antiquated Toasts, give me your Spleen?
Ye Gamesters, Goalers, and ye purse-proud Traders,
Give me your merciless stern Minds a Moment?
Now, by my Soul, you Jade, unless you drink it,
Upon thy white-wash'd Face this Phila flies,
Levels thy Nose, and burns out both thy Eyes.

Arietta.
(Drinks.
Oh! oh! oh!
I'm in a dismal Pickle.
Like a Tetotum, my poor Head is whirling.

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As School-boys make the giddy Top run round,
So reels Arietta 'till she drops to Ground.

Enter Squire Fanfly.
Fanfly.
O Brimstone, thou shalt sleep to Night in Bridewell.
Thou Cinder-sifting, dirty, stroling Punk;
Oh Arietta—Oh ye Powers—she's drunk.

Arietta.
I am, indeed; I'm in a sad Condition.
Oh! I am sick. What's that which dances by me?
Behold, the Tea-Table is all a-float;
See Tea-Cups failing, Tea-Spoons turn'd to Oars,
Chairs, Night-Gowns, Pillows, Lap-Dogs, Cards, and Counters,
Oh! Water, Water, Oh—Oh—

(Sleeps.
Fanfly.
At length she's dumb, her nimble Tongue stands still,
Her talking Faculties by Sleep are numb'd,
And ev'ry Sound has left her silent Lips.
O thou sweet-pleasing Sleep, whose ebon Wand,
With drowsy Poppies wreath'd, can slumb'rous charm

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Ev'n Ladies Tongues, and at thy wond'rous Touch,
Silence is fix'd on tattle-loving Fair.

Capriola.
Since then, to Night, you can't this Lady see,
Come, my dear Squire, come along with me?

Fanfly.
Avaunt, get out, I'd rather see a Tipstaff.

Capriola.
Yes, I will go, curse on your steady Muscle.
Oh! I could hate myself for being kind
To savage Man, the only Beast untam'd.
Each Brute, from Instinct, feels a separate Taste,
But motley-minded Man mimics them all.
First, like a Spaniel, fawning, then puts on
An Ape's Grimace, and Monkey-like he plays,
Sly as the wily Fox, insidious plots,
Or rudely rushes, like the Mountain Bull,
And all to win poor, weak, defenceless Woman.
But when Desire by full Possession's cloy'd,
Like secret skulking Moles, they coward hide,
Or bray, like stupid Asses, of our Favours.
Woman to undeserving Man was given,
The last best Gift of ever-bounteous Heaven,
Fond, like a Child, at first the Play-Thing pleas'd,
But soon, too soon, the self-same Beauty teiz'd;

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He cries to change, and sighs for other Toys,
Ideot-like dotes, or Savage-like destroys:
While wretched Woman-kind betray'd, like me,
Can only curse the Sex, as I do thee .

(Spits at him, and exit.
Fanfly.
Put her to Bed, and let's go in to Supper,
And, in Despite of Grief, let us be merry .
The Sweet-heart thus her bonny Sailor leaves,
And yields reluctant to the Wind-rais'd Waves,
Turns quick, and views the Vessel with a Fright,
Stretching away, and less'ning to her Sight,
Sighing, at last she sees it lose the Shore,
Then looks, and looks, till she can look no more.

 

The scrupulous Exactness that Mr. W. pays to the coming of Hamlet's Ghost, here must be remembered.

Hamlet tells the Ghost, Be thy Intents wicked or charitable.

Mr. W. will have it, Be thy Advent wicked or charitable. Now, be judge, O Reader, how nicely this is altered.

The Son says, Be thy Intentions good or bad, this is plain.

The Critic says, Be thy Coming good or bad, not quite so clear. H. H.

The Ghost says, according to Shakespear, Confined fast in Fires.

According to Mr. Warburton, Confined too fast in Fires.

To shew Mr. W. that I can alter as well as himself, nay, and amend his own Edition, behold an Example.

O Buckingham, beware of yonder Dog,

His venom Tooth will rankle to the Death. Warburton.

Q. Margaret, Richard III. Act I. Scene 3.

I say it should be.

His venom Tooth will rankle thee to Death.

Sluic'd the Jade.—It should be, souc'd the Jade.

Sluic'd is too indelicate a Word for a fine Lady to make use of. I think it is the Business of every Commentator, to be nice in regulating the Ideas of his Characters, or else we may construe Expressions, put into the Mouths of nice Ladies, to very gross Meanings. Well has Mr. W. shewed us an Example of that, by his Note in King Lear, Act I. Scene 2, Regan says, Which the most precious Square of Sense possesses. On this, he thus judiciously, delicately remarks.

By the Square of the Senses, we are here to understand, the four nobler Senses, viz. Seeing, Hearing, Tasting, and Smelling; for a young Lady could not, with any Decency, insinuate, she knew of any Pleasure which the fifth afforded.

He is so very nice, in respect of the Senses, that he will not allow them to be pierced. It is not right, he thinks, so he alters a Line in Lear's Curse,

From A Father's Curse pierce every Sense about thee,

To A Father's Curse pierce every Fence about thee.

Here is a Piece of Wit, which may pass unnoticed by the Reader, if I do not put him in Mind of it: It is this—

Think not to skreen thee.—Memorandum, she is gone behind the Skreen.

Foul-mouth'd Tongue.

In As you like it, you may meet with the Word foul.

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a Scoffer.

This, I believe, is obvious to the meanest Capacity, Homeliness is made worse, if the Ugly pretend to rail at the Deformed.

But the Sagacity of Mr. W. renders it,

Foul is foul, being found to be a Scoffer. And declares, the Repetition of foul is too absurd to come from Shakespear.

Playing upon Words was not Shakespear's greatest Beauty, but it was very much his Practice. Allow me, Reader, to give you a Specimen of Mr. W. playing upon Words himself.

He, in his Notes on the Witches of Macbeth, their Charms, and Incantations, says, as extravagant shocking and absurd all this is, the Play has had the Power to charm and bewitch every Audience, from that Time to this.

And since I have offered a Specimen of his Humour, give me Leave to exhibit one of his Wit.

In the same Play he says, after some Account of the Sun, and its Rays, Optics, &c. a Rainbow is no more a Reflection of the Sun, than a Tune of a Fiddle.

This Tag is in true Tragedy Taste. Here are a Parcel of trite Common Place Similies crouded together, and Half a Dozen Verses at the End, which is on Purpose, that the Heroine may make a graceful Exit. H. H.

This is right. And in Despite of Grief, &c.

So Antipholis, in the Comedy of Errors, Act III. Scene 1, says, And in Despite of Wrath, mean to be merry; for he has received several Rebuffs from his Wife, and is resolved to go to another House.

And in Despite of her Wrath, be merry.

But Mr. W. renders it,

And in Despite of Mirth, mean to be merry.


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A Midnight SCENE.
Enter Spunge.
Spunge.
'Tis now the Dead of Night; so much the better:
Lamp, by your Leave,—shew Light to read this Letter?

Honoured Sir,

Hoping these Lines in Health will find you well,
As I myself am, I make bold to tell,
If you, to Night, to our Back-door repair,
When it strikes Twelve, you'll surely find one there.
Now grizly Night, thy pitch'd Tarpaulin spread,
Black as the sooty Chimney-sweeper's Sack;
Snore, ye bed-wanting Bunters, on each Bulk;
Wake not, ye Watchmen, while I warn my Love,
Molly, Miss Molly, O Miss Molly, Molly
But see the Casement opens, she appears,
And spreads a sparkling Light along the Lane.

Miss.
Who's there?


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Spunge.
My dear, 'tis I, your True-love, Spunge.

Miss.
If I, poor Girl, do trust myself with you,
May I depend, Sir, you'll be always true?

Spunge.
By yon pale greasy Lamp that twinkling burns;
By the still Silence of this Tongue-ty'd Night;
By this sad Soul that snores, immers'd in Drink—

Miss.
O, do not swear—I do indeed believe,
So sweet a Tongue, sure, never can deceive.
Here, take this Bundle?

As he takes it, a Noise is heard within, of, Bring him along; the 'Squire is carried across the Stage, and the Watchmen seize Spunge, and carry him off last.

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SCENE, the Watch-House.
Constable asleep, Watch asleep, all asleep .
Enter Spunge.
1st Watchman.

An please your Honour's Worship, Mr. Constable,
I have reprehended an suspicious Fellow,
and made bold, as it is my Duty, an it please
you, to bring him before your Worship.


Constable.

Where did you reprehend him?


2d Watchman.

Just by, he stood hiding himself as I and my
Partner came by, and thought, as how it might
be proper to take care of him: Whereby, least
he should rob any Body, we took this Bundle
from him.


Constable.

Oh, oh; ay, ay, he's a Thief sure enough, and
I know a Thief as well as the Beggar knows his
Dish, as the Song says. Come, Sirrah, who
are you?



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Spunge.

A Gentleman.


Constable.

Yes, yes, you shall be hang'd like a Gentleman .
What's your Name?


Spunge.

Spunge.


Constable.

Spunge! Oh, Mr. Spunge, you shall be squeez'd
dry enough before we have done with you.


(A great Laugh.
1st Watchman.
Ay, Master Constable's a parlous Man at a Joke.
And how came you by that Bundle, Sirrah?
Did not you steal it?

Spunge.
No, Sir?

Constable.

No, Sir; no, Sir. But I say Yes, Sir, you
did, Sir, and you'll be hang'd, Sir. Here's a


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Rogue for you, first robs, and then denies it;
telling me, his Majesty's Representative, a Lye
to my Face. But now you shall hear how I'll
prove him a Rogue: First and foremost, as I said
before, he must be a Rogue, because he denies
it, for that's always the Trick of a Rogue: Next,
he must be a Rogue, because, at this Time, all
honest People shou'd be in Bed: And lastly, he
must be a Rogue, because—because—
Who did you belong to, Sirrah? What Complices
have you?


Spunge.

I belong to 'Squire Fanfly.


1st Watchman.

O! he's gone to Bedlam; they carried him
away To-night.


Spunge.
If he is mad, then I'm indeed undone.
Farewel the noble Treats, the nimble Race,
The eager Cockings, and all studious Whist;
No more shall I, the well-wax'd Cork unscrew:
Who'll now the noisy Dun's tumultuous Voice,
With Pill-Peruvian stop?

Constable.

Carry him into the next Room, while we consult
about him. Now, Neighbours, as you were


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saying, the 'Squire was mad, I am a saying, this
Man is mad also. D'ye hear how he talks about
a Cock and a Bull? So ye that took him shall
carry him to Bedlam, and I'll take Care of the
Bundle, and deliver it to the right Owner, when
I can find one, and so let Justice take Place,
and good Morrow all.—Break up the
Watch.


 

All asleep. A fine Instance and Emblem of Tranquillity.

This is quite in Nature: For it is common for an inferior Officer of Justice to sentence every Man who is brought before him; to drole on the Distresses of his Looks, or his Dress, and to make him out a Rogue by the Force of Physiognomy.

SCENE the last. BEDLAM.
Enter the 'Squire's Mamma, and Phlebotome.
Mamma.
Sir, tho' you have my Son, yet pray be gentle,
Let him be mildly brought again to Reason.

Phlebotome.
Madam, will it please you, stand by, and observe him,
You then shall see my Method, and no Doubt,
You will approve the Medicines I prescribe.

(A Noise is heard within, of Singing, ratling Chains, Roaring, &c.

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Enter a Lady.
Lady.

Your Grace's most devoted, my Lord, your
humble; pray let me see you at my Drum Tonight;
there will be Miss Rout, Madam Racquet,
Lady Hurricane, and the Dutchess of Helter-Skelter.


Mamma.

Pray, who is this?


Phlebotome.

A kept Mistress, who run mad because a
Tradesman's Wife took the Wall of her.

Damn the Dutch, I say.

(Within.
Phlebotome.

O! here comes the Dancing-Master: He lost
his Senses studying Politics.


Enter Dancing-Master.
Dancing-Master.

I say, Sir, the Dutch can't dance, Sir. For,
suppose, Sir, now all the Princes in Europe at an
Assembly, the Queen of Hungary opens the Ball,
and the King of Prussia puts her out. The
French figure in and out just as they please; the


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Dutch don't dance, Sir, but keep serving every
Body with Tea and Coffee.


Phlebotome.

What do the English do, Sirrah?


Dancing-Master.

Oh, oh, the English—Why they pay the Fidlers.


Enter Shoemaker.
Shoemaker.

I'll pay no Body, Sir, I'm for Liberty and Property,
and damn all Taxes.


Phlebotome.

This was a mad Shoemaker; his Skull was
crack'd at an Election.


Shoemaker.

Huzza, Liberty for ever—and Old England
always. Friends and Fellow-Craft, I am come
among you to promote Peace and good Neighbourbood,
and I'll knock any one down that
dares deny it. It's Time that all Taxes were made
an End of, for before Taxes, every poor Man
was as good as a Lord; we could have Liquor
for nothing, and Meat without Money. Therefore,
I say, no Taxes.



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Enter Gamester.
Gamester.

I say, done to you.


Phlebotome.

This is a Gamester; he run mad after Religion.


Gamester.

What's the most Odds against a Man's going
to Heav'n?


Enter Barber.
Barber.

The World wants Shaving.


Phlebotome.

This is a Barber's 'Prentice, who run mad with
Metaphysics.


Gamester.

What's the most Odds a Man goes to Heaven?


Barber.

Heaven is immaterial, abstracted from infinite
Space; for the World lies in the Clouds, as a
Wash-Ball in a Bason of Suds: Therefore, Gravitation's


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consider'd as a Predicament of Matter,
by the same Parity of Reason.


Gamester.

What's the most Odds against a Man's going
to Heaven?


Shoemaker.

Sirrah, you are a Placeman; you want to make
Int'rest at Court, Sirrah.


Enter Poet.
Poet.

And rumbling, grumbling, and I'm cold and
queer.


Phlebotome.

O! this is the Poet; his Play was damn'd, and
he ran mad upon it.


Poet.

This Play, Sir, is call'd, The Deluge. It opens
with a Soliloquy of one of Noah's Sons, who is
lamenting the Loss of his Perriwig, which was
spoil'd in the Rain.

Now does the rumbling Thunder rend the Sky,
And crawling Caterpillars trembling fly.
Now purring Cats the nimble Mice pursue,
And boneless Ghosts turn twinkling Candles blue.

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The Light'ning flashes, thro' the fiery Clouds,
Scare the bold Titan's, and all Homer's Gods,
And while the Combat lasts, all Heaven's at Odds.

Gamester.
I'll take the Odds, I say done first.

Enter Squire Fanfly.
Mamma.
O my poor Child, my Fanfly!

Fanfly
Who's that calls?
O, my Mother! Is it you? O let me out,
Release me from this Wretchedness, I'll promise
To offend no more; no more with Rakes to run,
But live your loving, your obedient Son.

Mamma.
Come to my Arms, my rash, unthinking Child,
And let me fold ye. Thus the cackling Hen,
When the stray Chicken's found, with joyful Clucks,
The tender Nurseling laps beneath her Wing.

Fanfly.
Farewel all Drinking, and the Joys of Love,
By all the Gods, to study I'll remove;

99

I'll live by Book, and learn to think by Rule,
And quite forget that I was once a Fool.

Phlebotome.
Well, since you both so well agree,
This is a Day of Jubilee;
Ye mad Inhabitants advance,
And, like yourselves, leap up a Dance.

DANCE.
FINIS.