 | The Court of Alexander |  |
9
ACT I.
SCENE I.
The Curtain drawn up: The Court of Alexander discover'd asleep. Bottles, Glasses, Punch Bowls, &c. empty'd upon the Tables. The Guards asleep upon the Floor. The Court waking by Degrees. All arise, except Alexander.
SEMI CHORUS.
Clytus.
Alexander! our Commander!
Pray now rise, Sir;
Ope your Eyes, Sir.
GRAND CHORUS.
Alexander!
Our Commander!
Our Commander!
Alexander! Alexander!
Alexander.
Clytus.
Alexander! our Commander!
Pray now rise, Sir;
Ope your Eyes, Sir.
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GRAND CHORUS.
Alexander!
Our Commander!
Our Commander!
Alexander! Alexander!
Who calls on Alexander? Honest Clytus!
What is the Foe march'd forth, and means to fight us?
Clytus.
Dread Sir, you have no Foes: You're so magnanimous;
Your Mightiness has made the World unanimous.
Alexander.
That's true: I dream'd indeed of Chariots rattling;
Of Horses, and of high-bred Heroes battling;
Of clashing Weapons, and of Armour clinking;
But my Head's all abroad, with last Night's Drinking:
My Lips are crack'd, my Palate rough and rusty;
As I'm an Emp'ror, I am mighty thirsty.
Before me dance, methinks, each warlike Trophy:
Hephestion, order us a Pot of Coffee.
[Exit Hephestion.
But where is Thais? I am not me ipse
'Till I've a Song from that Sol-fa-ing Gipsey.
AIR.
Of Horses, and of high-bred Heroes battling;
Of clashing Weapons, and of Armour clinking;
But my Head's all abroad, with last Night's Drinking:
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As I'm an Emp'ror, I am mighty thirsty.
Before me dance, methinks, each warlike Trophy:
Hephestion, order us a Pot of Coffee.
[Exit Hephestion.
But where is Thais? I am not me ipse
'Till I've a Song from that Sol-fa-ing Gipsey.
Should Scandal dare to pelt her,
Oh! how wou'd I helter skelter;
Ding dong,
Right or Wrong,
For a Lover his Fury ne'er stifles:
Pray what's Wrong or what's Right?
When a Man is to fight,
He won't trouble his Head with such Trisles.
Oh! how wou'd I helter skelter;
Ding dong,
Right or Wrong,
For a Lover his Fury ne'er stifles:
Pray what's Wrong or what's Right?
When a Man is to fight,
He won't trouble his Head with such Trisles.
Give me a Bumper.
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Now my King, you say right;
Hob Nob, your Honour: Fuller! I see Day-light.
AIR.
I.
In spite of the Maxims of School Men,Whose cynical Sentences fool Men;
Shall Pedants pretend, pray, to Rule Men?
Or tell us what we shou'd be at?
'Twas as well if the World had ne'er known'em;
But a Bottle has always o'erthrown 'em,
For a Bottle is Life's Summum Bonum;
We all can be Scholars at that.
II.
Over Books who all Night wou'd be Blinking,That all Night cou'd Bumpers be drinking?
That Study well suits with my Thinking:
No Classic, but Bacchus, for me.
The Heart and the Head's best Assistance,
The Power which conquers Resistance,
Makes Pain, Care and Fear, keep their Distance;
My Bucks, Ecce Signum, 'tis He.
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III.
Philosophers Prate melancholly,Pretending that Life is but Folly;
Because they can't keep it up, jolly,
But, over poor Pump-Water, pine.
I laugh at their Moods and their Tenses,
Their Major, and Minor Defences;
They shan't talk me out of my Senses,
Nor make me for Logic leave Wine.
Enter Thais.
Alexander.
Come, Thais, sing.
Clytus.
So now we shall be bother'd,
And Common Sense in Symphonini's smother'd.
Imperial Emperor, whose Sword and Dagger
Made, like a drunken Man, Darius stagger;
To whom ev'n India's sun-burn'd Sultan truckles,
Thy Magnanimity raps Nabobs Knuckles:
O'er Terra Cognita you rule the Roast.
Yet, ah!
Before Miss Thais sings, your Clytus begs a Toast.
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Clytus, well said; and thus says Aristotle,
“Wine without Toasting's bad; Life bad without a Bottle.”
Where stands the Glass?
Thais.
Thou Monarch of my Soul,
Quit, for my sake, the Brain-beguiling Bowl:
Leave the Gout-giving Juice; retire with me,
In my Chinese Pavilion drink some Tea.
Clytus.
Bacchus forbid! Shall he, who conquers Nations,
Fribblish submit to such slip-slop Potations?
In spite of Water-bibbers, you and I know,
We must be true to Wine; Est Veritas in Vino.
Alexander.
Sing, sing, my Thais; Echo waits thy Words
To symphonize, encore Fifths, Eighths and Thirds;
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Attention tip-toe stands to hear thy Song.
So sing, dear Thais.
Thais.
What, Sir, shall I sing?
Alexander.
Just what you please; but let it be the Thing.
Orpheus was Musick-Master to the Woods,
Gave Groves a Gamut, put in Tune the Floods;
He made tall Trees a Minuet-Step advance in,
Taught Hedges Hornpipes, Shrubberies Country-Dancing;
For every Reptile he had Songs and Jigs,
And Symphonies compos'd for Guinea Pigs.
AIR.
Orpheus was Musick-Master to the Woods,
Gave Groves a Gamut, put in Tune the Floods;
He made tall Trees a Minuet-Step advance in,
Taught Hedges Hornpipes, Shrubberies Country-Dancing;
For every Reptile he had Songs and Jigs,
And Symphonies compos'd for Guinea Pigs.
For Weazels and Rats,
He had both Sharps and Flats,
For Dogs barking Largo and Affetto;
From the grinding of Knives,
And the scolding of Wives,
He compos'd a Dismallo Duetto.
He had both Sharps and Flats,
For Dogs barking Largo and Affetto;
From the grinding of Knives,
And the scolding of Wives,
He compos'd a Dismallo Duetto.
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He made of Frogs Croaks,
And the kawing of Rooks,
And Cats caterwawling Arpegios:
Found in D, that Cocks crow,
Bulls sound G, below,
And sucking Pigs squeak out Adagios.
And the kawing of Rooks,
And Cats caterwawling Arpegios:
Found in D, that Cocks crow,
Bulls sound G, below,
And sucking Pigs squeak out Adagios.
Now, Thais, sing; and Silence, my Compeers;
Your Lips take Prisoners, and let loose your Ears;
Mute waits each Muse, in her celestial Arbour,
'Till she has sung to Chorus; that's the Barber.
Your Lips take Prisoners, and let loose your Ears;
Mute waits each Muse, in her celestial Arbour,
'Till she has sung to Chorus; that's the Barber.
Thais.
I've so immense a Cold, Sir, without joaking,
So monst'rous hoarse, my Singing will be shocking.
AIR.
Poets, in pretty sing-song Strains,
With Fancy's Pinions fledge their Brains;
From Height to Height romantic rise,
O'er-top the Clouds, and tread on Skies:
Cou'd I but mount the Muse's Wing,
Oh! how I'd soar! Oh! how I'd sing!—
With Fancy's Pinions fledge their Brains;
From Height to Height romantic rise,
O'er-top the Clouds, and tread on Skies:
Cou'd I but mount the Muse's Wing,
Oh! how I'd soar! Oh! how I'd sing!—
17
“Sire, Clytus is asleep.
“Alexander.
“So, ho! 'Squire Drowsy!
“Take that, Sir Somnus; that, I think, will rouse ye.
[Throws a Glass of Wine at him.
“Lysimachus.
“Full in his Face, great King, the Bumper splash'd.
“Clytus.
“How so on, you see, a modest Man is dash'd:
“I cou'd have kept awake, Sire, all Night long,
“Had you a Bottle order'd with the Song.
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I.
“Commander, you know I'm no sol-fa-ing Fellow,“Nor care I a Crotchet for Coxcomb Apollo;
“His Poets, poor Devils! are soup-maigre Pages,
“Who feed on his Physic, instead of Board-Wages.
II.
“No Grapes on the Mount of Parnassus can grow,“Nor Castaly's Cascade with Burgundy flow:
“What's Pegasus good for? Yes, he shall be mine,
“I'll make him my Hackney, to fly for my Wine.
III.
“For Daphne a Tune Phoebus struck up, to bring her;“But she'd not submit to an Opera-Singer:
“Draw, draw your Bows up and down, Tweedle and Tweedling:
“I'll draw a long Cork, and a Fig for your Fiddling.”
19
March all: Our Royal Word is Promenade,
And we will wend our Way in Grand Parade:
Soon as I make the Signal for Egression,
Trumpet us off aloud in full Procession;
Make the Air shake, the rafter'd Roof rebellow:
So wheel off, two by two; and then we two will follow.
A PROCESSION here.
Instead of War Trophies, Drinking Trophies. After all are gone except Alexander, who has led Thais to the Side-Wing: Enter, Roxana, and seizes Alexander's Robe, just as he has quitted the Stage. She pulls him back by it, and down he tumbles.
Alexander.
[On the Ground.
Now, by our Royal Self, why all this Fury?
Roxana.
Because your Royal Self seems in a Hurry.
20
Do not, my Hero, give yourself Uneasiness;
Mind not that Creature, let us mind our Business.
Roxana.
The Creature! But I'm calm. Your Business, Boldface!
A Man of Taste indeed! to admire an old Face.
AIR.
You Harlot!
You Varlet!
Your Sex, as I know ye,
In few Words, I'll show ye:
Self-Consequence fools ye,
And Prejudice rules ye:
To your own Follies Slaves,
While to us you are Knaves;
You Varlet!
Your Sex, as I know ye,
In few Words, I'll show ye:
Self-Consequence fools ye,
And Prejudice rules ye:
To your own Follies Slaves,
While to us you are Knaves;
21
Nor know ye the Value of what you betray,
But rob us, and then throw those Riches away.
For Man is no more than an over-grown Baby,
A Rattle can please him, or put him in Rage;
An Ape or an Ass, just as Accidents may be:
A sensible Man is a Show of an Age.
But rob us, and then throw those Riches away.
For Man is no more than an over-grown Baby,
A Rattle can please him, or put him in Rage;
An Ape or an Ass, just as Accidents may be:
A sensible Man is a Show of an Age.
Alexander.
Piano, Child, I beg.
Roxana.
No, I'll be louder;
Give me, ye Gods and Goddesses, Gunpowder:
Great Ammon's Son himself shan't keep me under;
I'll look in Lightning, and I'll speak in Thunder.
22
Alexander.
RECITATIVE Accompany'd.
So have I seen a Deal at Whist oft play'd,
One Partner trumps a Club and one a Spade;
Thus fix a See-saw, as these Ladies clawing,
Roxana this, and that Way Thais drawing,
The mighty Alexander are See-sawing.
GRAND TRIO.
Alex.
Roxana, I tell you, you had better be quiet:
Rox.
That for you, that for you,
[Snaps her Fingers.
I'll kick up a Riot.
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Turn to me, my Dear;
Turn from her your Ear.
Rox.
Must I this Gipsey hear,
Yet tame stand by?
Tha.
The Lady is in Drink;
Alex.
So, indeed, I think:
Rox.
Indeed you lye.
Where's your Conscience?
Alex.
Curse your Nonsense.
[Exeunt.
End of the FIRST ACT.
| The Court of Alexander | |