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Distress upon Distress : or, Tragedy in True Taste

A Heroi-Comi-Parodi-Tragedi-Farcical Burlesque
  
  
  

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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.