 | Lorenzo, A Tragedy In Five Acts |  |
EPILOGUE, WRITTEN BY MILES PETER ANDREWS, ESQ. AND SPOKEN BY MRS. MATTOCKS.
When tragic pomp, and solemn sounds are o'er,
When storms, and starts, and groans are heard no more;
Hard is her task, the Heroine of the past,
Who on this welcome floor has breath'd her last;
Snatch'd from the peaceful grave, again to rise,
And titter at her own short obsequies;
If her you pity, what do you think of me?
Torn from my comfortable dish of tea;
No warm impassion'd scenes to rant and reel in,
Nor love, nor murder to assist my feeling;
Sent like some Merry Andrew at a Fair,
To mimic follies, and to make folks stare.
(Imitates a Trumpet)
“Walk in—Ladies and Gentlemen—walk in—
“The notified—just going to begin”—
When storms, and starts, and groans are heard no more;
Hard is her task, the Heroine of the past,
Who on this welcome floor has breath'd her last;
Snatch'd from the peaceful grave, again to rise,
And titter at her own short obsequies;
If her you pity, what do you think of me?
Torn from my comfortable dish of tea;
No warm impassion'd scenes to rant and reel in,
Nor love, nor murder to assist my feeling;
Sent like some Merry Andrew at a Fair,
To mimic follies, and to make folks stare.
(Imitates a Trumpet)
“Walk in—Ladies and Gentlemen—walk in—
“The notified—just going to begin”—
What shall I say? Our ever grateful Bard,
Who, in your tears, hath found his best reward;
Still humbly hopes, to crown his anxious toil,
Th' enlivening ray of one approving smile;
Unite with generous warmth to aid his cause,
No fear to bring the house down with applause.
Our walls are strong, they baffle Time's attacks—
Crowd hither as you will—we dread no cracks.—
Who, in your tears, hath found his best reward;
Still humbly hopes, to crown his anxious toil,
Th' enlivening ray of one approving smile;
Unite with generous warmth to aid his cause,
No fear to bring the house down with applause.
Crowd hither as you will—we dread no cracks.—
Much could I offer in our Bard's defence,
But fashion is too much at war with sense;
The higher ranks have long let reason 'scape 'em;
John Bull at length strives, awkwardly, to ape 'em.—
“Fegs,” cries fat Madam Dump, from Wapping Wall,
“I don't love plays no longer, not at all;
“They're now so vulgar, and begin so soon,
“None but low people dines till afternoon;
“Then they mean summot, and the like o' that,
“And it's impossible to sit and chat.—
“Give me the Uppero, where folks come so grand in,
“And nobody need have no understanding.”—
But fashion is too much at war with sense;
The higher ranks have long let reason 'scape 'em;
John Bull at length strives, awkwardly, to ape 'em.—
“Fegs,” cries fat Madam Dump, from Wapping Wall,
“I don't love plays no longer, not at all;
“They're now so vulgar, and begin so soon,
“None but low people dines till afternoon;
“Then they mean summot, and the like o' that,
“And it's impossible to sit and chat.—
“Give me the Uppero, where folks come so grand in,
“And nobody need have no understanding.”—
That's right, Mamma, rejoins the darling plump,
Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Dump;
“Puppa's a fool—with his old fashion'd jokes
“About your Shakspears, and such surly folks:
“He hates a Consort, Ma', and that you know—
“O yes, my Chuck, I found that long ago.—
“Well, I should like a consort every night,
“Sweet Signor Thingomee is my delight.
“Then it's so tasty, that all must agree on,
“To talk about one's box at the Pantheon;
“To scrouge the Coffee Room, to see the Ballet,
“Or squint at the smart Jemmies in Fop's Alley.”
Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Dump;
“Puppa's a fool—with his old fashion'd jokes
“About your Shakspears, and such surly folks:
“He hates a Consort, Ma', and that you know—
“O yes, my Chuck, I found that long ago.—
“Well, I should like a consort every night,
“Sweet Signor Thingomee is my delight.
“Then it's so tasty, that all must agree on,
“To talk about one's box at the Pantheon;
“To scrouge the Coffee Room, to see the Ballet,
“Or squint at the smart Jemmies in Fop's Alley.”
Fop's Alley! Scene of wonder and surprize,
Where all that's graceful, blends with all that's wise;
Where Britain's youth, like horses to be sold,
Sport their strip'd flannel cloathing seven fold.
And thou dear region of enchanting sounds,
Whose magic every meaner sense confounds,
Forgive me, if awhile, in mirthful glee,
I dare to trifle with thy dignity!
Where all that's graceful, blends with all that's wise;
Where Britain's youth, like horses to be sold,
Sport their strip'd flannel cloathing seven fold.
And thou dear region of enchanting sounds,
Whose magic every meaner sense confounds,
Forgive me, if awhile, in mirthful glee,
Suppose, as foremost of the splendid groupe,
Enter great Julius Cæsar in a hoop.
(Sings.)
Ambizione! del Tiranno!
Piu forte, piu pianno, ache fin—
“Zounds! here's my warrant, and I will come in.
“Diavolo! who come here to so confound us?
“The constables to take you to the Round-house;
“De Round-house—Mi!—You know, Sir, what I am,
“Could I speak Englis, how I'd swear Got tem.”—
Now comes the dance, the demi-caractere,
Chacone, the pas de deux, the here, the there;
And last the Chief, high bounding on the loose toe,
Or poiz'd like any Mercury—a che gusto!
(Stands on one leg.
Enter great Julius Cæsar in a hoop.
(Sings.)
Ambizione! del Tiranno!
Piu forte, piu pianno, ache fin—
“Zounds! here's my warrant, and I will come in.
“Diavolo! who come here to so confound us?
“The constables to take you to the Round-house;
“De Round-house—Mi!—You know, Sir, what I am,
“Could I speak Englis, how I'd swear Got tem.”—
Now comes the dance, the demi-caractere,
Chacone, the pas de deux, the here, the there;
And last the Chief, high bounding on the loose toe,
Or poiz'd like any Mercury—a che gusto!
In fruitless pleasure or destructive play,
The slaves of fashion fritter life away;
Yet let the Bard no forc'd attractions fear,
For nature's feelings still will triumph here.
The slaves of fashion fritter life away;
Yet let the Bard no forc'd attractions fear,
For nature's feelings still will triumph here.
| Lorenzo, A Tragedy In Five Acts | |