 | The Battle of the Poets : Or The Contention for the Laurel |  |
King.
“This is the Wedding-day
“Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom Thumb:
Fetch me my Laureat quickly, let him write
On Huncamunca's Marriage with Tom Thumb,
Epithalamiums full of Frisk and Fun.
Nood.
Alas! my Lord, your noble Laureat's dead.
King.
Ha! dead! Is't possible?
Griz.
My Liege, 'tis true.
King.
Witness, ye Powers, I have not in my Realm
One fit to wear the Laurel after him!
Yet, my good Lords, with officious Haste
Summon the Sons of Crambo, 'tis our Will
They should appear, and rhime it for the Bays:
You, my good Lords, shall judge th' ambitious Strife,
And where 'tis most deserv'd, the Wreath bestow.
[Exeunt King, &c.
Nood.
Haste, fly my Lord, and bid the Tribe convene.
[To Doodle.
Griz.
He need not—Even now around the Door
A numerous Tribe of Rhimesters waiting stand,
Thick as in fly-blown Mutton Maggots breed,
They croud the Palace Gate.
New Mushrom-Poets of a Night start up,
With dirty Fingers reaching at the Bays,
And bawl their Merit forth in hobling Verse.
Tinkers, Sow-gelders, Threshers, Footmen, Pimp
Old punning Coblers, Taylors insolent,
And scribling snotty-nos'd Attorneys Clerks,
Put in their equal Claim—
Nood.
Admit 'em them—
We'll hear these brave Parnassian Peers contend.
First, let the senior Bard approach our Ears.
[Doodle goes out, and returns with a Paper.
Dood.
My Lord, I cannot get the Senior to approach.
Nood.
Why, what is he?
Griz.
A punning Cobler! An excellent Toad
at writing Pindaricks! He's a great Critick too.
Dood.
Yonder he stands without, talking to his
gaping Brethren, of the Strength of Genius! the
great Hints! the supernatural Emotion! the Soar-ætherial
Conceptions.
Nood.
Heyday! Heyday! Are you sure his
Brain is not touch'd?
Griz.
Brain touch'd! Why his Judgment is now
full ripe.
Nood.
I fear it will be found like a Medlar, not
only ripe, but rotten—But has he sent in any
Verses?
Dood.
Yes, yes, here they are.
Nood.
Read 'em, my Lord Truetaste.
[Doodle gives the Paper to Truetaste.
True.
[After perusing a little]
I'll try, but I fear
I shan't do him Justice, they are so very sublime.
Oh! vast Profundity, hail mighty Power!
Thy Influence shed
On this devoted Head!
An happy Hour
Ah! let me snatch it e'er too late!
The shady Laurel even now
Awaits this ancient Brow;
Which if I lose,
I like a Goose,
Or sullen Bittern on the Danube's Shore,
Among the Reeds slow-swinging o'er
The rapid Stream, shall hum, or buz, or roar.
Nood.
Give my Service to him, and tell him, I
think he's too sublime for a Laureat; but I'll use
my Interest to make him Thunderer at one of the
Play-houses.
Griz.
Lord, Sir, he does not write for Interest:
Reputation, Fame, immortal Fame, is what he
aims at.
True.
Then tell him I think he's an extraordinary
Person, and that his Verses are most wonderfully
wonderful.
[Exit Doodle.
Enter Doodle and Profund.
Nood.
Who is this, my Lord?
Prof.
May it please your Lordship, I was
brought up an Attorney, but finding my Capacity
above that Business, and having a Taste for
Poetry, I inclined my Study that way: As a
Proof of my Learning, I have restored the ancient
Reading of Jack the Giant-killer, and written a
Comment upon Thomas Hickathrift.
Nood.
Do you write fluently, Sir?
Prof.
Sir, in that I dare affirm,
None but myself can be my Parallel.
My envious Brethren think I only plod on in a
beaten Road, like a Pack-horse, but they are maliciously
mistaken. I write Plays and Operas
with the utmost Expedition; and I can't blow my
Nose, but out flies an Entertainment.
Nood.
Pray, Sir, give us a Specimen of your
Poetry.
[Profund takes a Paper out of his Pocket.
reads.
“In Days of Yore full-fam'd was Hickathrift,
“A peerless Wight, of Bags great Store had he.
Your modern Publishers and Printers have it so,
but at my peril let it stand corrected thus:
“Great Store of Gold had he, a peerless Wight.
As for the first, let all the Commentators in Europe
set their Heads together, and ring as many
Changes upon it, as were rung upon the Bells in
Cornhill, I'll undertake to give 'em twenty more;
and as to the second Line, having great Store of
Bags—as I humbly apprehend, is having just
nothing; but in my Reading, I change the Container,
Bags, for the Contained, Gold; which is absolutely,
upon the Word of a Scholiast, much—
much better.
Nood.
Sir, this may be very learned for what I
know, but your Poetry is what I want.
Prof.
Sir, I have a Specimen, which I don't
doubt will meet with your Approbation; there's
a Song in it, which my singing Back will perform
in a high Flight, and such a Flight as Mortal never
flew.
Full of Surprize and Wonder! in my Verse
Heaven, Earth, Air, Hell, Seas, Fire together blend
And sympathize—
Now, if you please, I'll call in my Back to sing
the Song.
[Goes to the Door.
Enter Songstero.
AIR. Flights of Cupids hover round me.
Flights of Bats and Owls hover round me,
Clap your merry, merry sounding Wings;
Flights of Bats and Owls hover round me,
Whilst transported thus a jolly Poet sings;
Laurel spreading,
My Brow shading,
Io! Victoria! this Sonnet brings.
Well, 'tis a very good Song, and we'll
consider on't—So retire a Moment.
[Exeunt Prof. and Song.
Enter Fopling Fribble.
True.
Mr. Fribble, I am glad to see you, we are
now proceeding to an Election—pray, Mr. Fribble,
if you stand as a Candidate, make a few extempore
Lines.
Frib.
Lightning rivet me in the Embraces of my
Muse eternally if I don't—Allons, my Dear, the
Subject! the Subject!
Nood.
We want an Epithalamium on Tom
Thumb's Marriage with the Princess Huncamunca.
Frib.
Ay, ay, my Dear, I'll do't—hum! let
me see!
Is a very great Man, gad strike me dumb;
And the fine Princess Huncamunca too,
Shall wed him without any more ado.
The Sun himself shall rise by Break of Day,
To see the Bride and Bridegroom all so gay;
And when that they are wed, and come from Church,
And at the Table sit in easy Chairs—
Griz.
Hold, hold, Mr. Fribble, easy Chairs don't
rhime to Church.
Frib.
Hah! gadso, that's true—let me see—
strike me speechless if I can find a Word that will
rhime to Church—oh! now Sir!
Griz.
Olud! why Joint-stools rhimes to Church
worse than easy Chairs.
Frib.
Psha! Pox, if you stand so hard for a
Rhime, the Devil would—be a Poet Laureat.
Griz.
True, Mr. Fribble, pray go on.
Frib.
Now, my Dears, as I suppose, the Epithalamium
is to be sung, I'll vary the Movement,
for the Benefit of the Musick—hold!—hum!
Well then!—ay, ay, right—
To chear our Souls;
Our Pipes we will sunk a,
For the Honour of great Huncamunca;
And as for Tom Thumb,
Say nothing but Mum:
For him we'll be damnable drunk a—
When he peeps in her Eyes,
For to see the Smiles rise,
Well pleas'd with the Pinking,
And Winking,
And Blinking,
All other Maids he'll despise.
When the Day-light is fled,
And they're going to Bed;
When the Princess is smerking,
And Tom pulls off his Jerkin—
Now 'tis decent to leave them there; and for the
Chorus of all—
To the Tune of, Non e Sivago.
[All.]
Sing Smerking,
And Jerkin,
And Jerkin,
And Smerking, &c.
[Noise without.]
We'll all come, we will come in.
Nood.
What means this Insolence?
Enter Sulky Bathos—Noctifer—and Profund.
Bath.
Impatient of the nipping eager Frost,
And willing soon to understand our Doom,
We thus approach.
Noct.
Your Ear, my Lord, I crave!
Nood.
Speak what thou art.
Noct.
I whilom, in a Cavern closely pent,
Midst Carmen (brawny brave Athletick Chiefs)
Where Bub salacious crown'd the slabber'd Board,
And curling Whifs of strong Mundungus rise,
Then in the Orchard's bloomy Shade reclin'd
Of Lovers in a Bower, the Fairies dance,
Descending Showers, the Midnight prowling Wolves,
Of Star-light Nights, of Moon-shine, Frost, and Heat,
And Owls and Bats full well devis'd to sing.
Pro.
Psha! I hope my Owls and Bats fly better than his.
Bath.
Rot your blind Bats, pox and confound your Owls:
Dar'st thou such tuneless Dissonance rehearse,
And impudently call it Milton's Strain,
Where barbarous Nonsense with undaunted Stare
Thro' the vast Heap of grim Confusion grins,
Dar'st thou,
Thou dangling Under-Spur-leather of Law,
Attempt the Bays? Be dumb, ye Slaves, be dumb!
Have I so long at Wit and Merit roar'd
In thundring Prose, or in Pindarick Hail!
Have I so often at the Popeian popt,
The Head of Lacrymosa Puppi lop'd,
Detected the Poppysmas too, and now
To be confronted by a Pack of Elves!
Be gone, and take it for sufficient Praise,
When it is said, you durst contend with me.
Frib.
Mad, mad! by the World, insuperably mad.
Pro.
(Together)
Read mine, my Lord—
Noct.
(Together)
I'm recommended by—
Bath.
(Together)
They can't be so good as mine—
Frib.
(Together)
I wish your Lordship wou'd peruse.
Griz.
Be silent all!—On gay extended Wings
Ye Insects, in the Sun-shine of a Court
Grown warm, you're troublesome;
Depart the Room! Go leave us, we'll debate
In Private where to place the Dignity.
Ah, ah! 'tis mine!—I see 'tis mine! I have carried the Day.
Nood.
You, Mr. Fribble, stay.
Frib.
Brethren, farewell.
Bath.
Fare thee well;
Ill Luck awaits me, and ill I must fare.
[Exeunt Bath. Pro. and Noct.
[A Noise without.]
True.
Pray keep back.
Flail.
Clear the Way, and let a Body come in.
[Within.
Griz.
What bustling Fellow is that?
Flail.
Wauns, I will come in, I'se tell you but that.
[Within.
Enter Flail.
Why, what a Thrusting and Squeezing is here!
Odsflesh, if this be coming to Court—
True.
Pray, my Lord, upon what Account is this Fellow introduced?
Flail.
Whoy, I'm but a West-country Thresher;
but I heard Volk were a making Varses vor a
Place at Court, zo I come to zhow my Zel; for
an Rhiming be all, I'ze rhime as thick as Hail, I
warrant ye.
Griz.
Have you ever been acquainted with Poetry?
Flail.
Ah!—Laud help your Head, read Poetry,
quotha! I've read Patient Grizzle, the Babes
i' the Wood, Chevy-Chace, and the Dragon o' Wantley.
Nood.
You're learned.
Flail.
Learned, oy, oy—or else I'd ne'er
made Varses for our Bell-man this ten Years—
Nay I can crack Jokes in Rhime: At Joan Drake's
Christning of her last Child, I made zuch Varses,
the old Gossips were ready to die with Laughter:
—Nay, they'd make your Hair stand on End to
read 'em, they be so vull of Wit.
Oh, you set up for a Wit then—that's
the worst thing you can do—the Title of a Wit
never carries the Laurel.
Flail.
Noa! waunds, I thought they were all
Wits—so plaguy zharp, that a Country Fellow
cou'd not speak to 'um, but zure they are no cunninger,
d'ye see, than other Volk—I'll zoon
try my Skill.
Behind a Cock of new-made Hay,
Quoth Roger to Dolly, Ah! let me now!
Noa, Roger, quoth she, you shan't I vow.
If ye liken to wed me, ye may play
With me quite thro' the live long Day.
Quo' Hodge, we may play, but how shall we live?
My Father, quo' Doll, five Pounds will give.
At this young Roger began to smerk;
Besides, quo' Doll, I can stitch with a Jerk.
Hoh! ho! ho!
Nood.
Oh pox, Mr. Thresher,—you're a meer Wag.
Flail.
Oy, oy, you zee Iz'e a very Wag.—
True.
Well, Mr.—What's your name, withdraw
a little, and you shall be answer'd.
[Exit Flail.
Nood.
Well, in my Opinion, Mr. Fribble has
carried it from 'em all, and so Lord Grizzle proceed.
[They rise and come to the Front of the Stage, Grizzle leading Fribble.
Griz.
As pendent Bushes shew the Sale of Wine,
And Pontack's Head denotes good Food within,
Thee, from thy Verses, Laureat I pronounce.
[To Frib.
Call in the Ministers in solemn Form,
Invest his Temples with the glorious Bays.
[Exit Doodle, and Enter Dismal and Dangle with Laurels.
Dism.
Are all Materials ready?
Sir, they are.
Dis.
With both my Eyes I have the Room survey'd,
And can't espy the Mug of potent Ale.
Dang.
Ale! Sir,—you mean Sack.
Dis.
Sir, I said Ale, and mean to be obey'd.
[Enter Servant with a Tankard.
[Dangle sits—Fribble kneels before him.]
Dang.
Laureats, like other common Scriblers, yield,
And thou art chosen to maintain the Post
Which thy great Predecessor whilom fill'd,
Hail, Son mature! Undaunted Poet, hail!
Thee from the Origin of Things fore-doom'd
To wear the Bays, I ween:
No common Honour waits thy ample Brow;
Thou Prince of Poets shall distinguish'd stand,
And chaunt in Strains unrival'd Arthur's Praise.
Mark well the Oath, which th'art firmly bound
Sacred to hold, and every Part fulfil.
[The OATH.]
Where easy Wit in just Expression shines,
Shall once appear.—To be no thieving Ass,
(Tho' hard thy Forehead as Corinthian Brass)
Profoundly swear, lest what you call your own
Be prov'd another's, for your Parts are known.
Whene'er you choose an Epigram to write,
Swear to be waggish, very unpolite;
In Elegy that you will ne'er appear
Natural, Easy, Strong, Succinct or Clear;
If to the Odes, Pindarick Odes, you soar,
To be stark mad, and like a Tempest roar;
And when in Satyr you delight to rail,
To write with toothless Head, and stingless Tail;
In Panegyricks daub your Patron well.
In all thy Thoughts and Actions still be sure
“All Nonsense thus of old or modern Date,
“Shall in thee center, from thee circulate.
[Dangle drinks, and gives the Tankard to Fribble.
Frib.
All this I swear, I'll prove to all Mankind,
None better for this Honour is design'd:
Already they perceive how I can write,
This be my Poison but I'll do thee Right.
[Drinks.
[The Officers put the Wreath on his Head.]
The SONG.
[Tune of, What a pox wou'd you be at—
Frib.
sings.
I.
My Temples aroundWith Laurel thus bound,
All you that behold at present a,
Shall find I have Wit
For my Post very fit,
By Nature I seem for it meant a.
II.
Sure no Wretch will dareWith me to compare,
Nor meagre grim Satyrist flout me;
For the highest Degree
Of Quality see
The Paraphonalia about me.
III.
I've a Bronze in my Face,In my Carriage a Grace,
Which has oft been expos'd to the Town a.
At my Plays, tho' the Croud
Have hist very loud,
Egad they cou'd ne'er hiss me down a.
IV.
For next New-year's Day,I'll show you a Lay
Writ with such Spirit, Force and Energy,
And in such a Strain,
As ne'er flow'd from the Brain
Of the late witty Son of the Clergy.
V.
Since now of good SackI shall ne'er know the Lack,
The Flights of my Fancy pursuing,
With Surprize you shall view
The Laureat out-do
His wonderful usual Out-Doing.
Nood.
The grand Procession only now remains
which I will go prepare.
[Exit.
True.
Haste and caparison, with wondrous Speed
The Ass that's destin'd to support the Weight
Of this our peerless Bard, and round proclaim
His Honours in quaint Songs and Roundelays.
[Exeunt in Form
[Mob without, huzzaing! and Flourish of Trumpets and Musick.
Enter King Arthur, Grizzle, and Courtiers, meeting Lord Noodle, &c. who give the King an Account of Tom Thumb's being swallowed up by the Cow. The King expresses his Concern for this Misfortune in the following Speech.
K. Arth.
Now, where's my Laureat? Let his Strains of Joy
To Horror and Confusion all be turn'd;
Let all the World run mad. Is there not Cause?
In what ill-fated Hour was I conceiv'd,
That thus a gloomy Cloud should over-cast
My Dawn of Joy!—
Enter Ghost.
Oh horrid killing Sight!
Start, glaring Eye-balls, from your Sockets start:
Ten thousand Furies with your brandish'd Snakes
Now lash my Soul, and thro' the vast Abyss
Pursue me with Variety of Pain:
Cerberus gape, and swallow me alive.
Promethean Vulturs gnaw my lab'ring Heart,
Let me, Ixion, to thy Wheel be chain'd,
But not behold yon grizly Spectre's Face.
[Upon this Grizzle kills the Ghost, and he is thereupon kill'd by one of the Courtiers, and his Death is likewise reveng'd by another, and so on till all the Characters on the Stage are destroyed.]
This now I take to be an unprecedented Incident of Scriblerus Secundus; and therefore to correct this Error of my elder Brother's, I have introduced the Laureat to conclude the Play with the following Speech.
Enter Fribble.
Ah cruel Death! what Havock hast thou made
In the best fairest Part of all Mankind!
Since these bright Orbs are blotted from their Spheres,
Nature appears an universal Blank.
No Day inconscious of your Worth shall pass;
Sooner shall Fleet-ditch clearer run than Thames,
A Make-weight Candle darken Titan's Beams,
Profund write Sense, and Bathos be a Wit,
And Milton's Strain to Noctifer's submit,
E'er I, immortal Peers, your Praise forget.
| The Battle of the Poets : Or The Contention for the Laurel | |