University of Virginia Library

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.
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

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.

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

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.

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;
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.