 | The Confederates |  |
13
SCENE II.
The Green Room at the Play-House.Mrs. OLDFIELD. BICKNEL.
Oldf.
Bicknel, it is resolv'd; thy Arts give o'er;
For from this Night, I tread the Stage no more:
Hiss'd and insulted!—Never, by my Soul,
I tread it more! I'd sooner go and stroll.
B.
Do not, good Sister, thus your Friends forsake,
For if you leave our House, we all shall break:
This Theatre will dwindle ev'ry Day,
And scarce our Profits for the Candles pay.
Avert, ye Gods! such Fate from Drury-Lane:
For to keep Wilks we then should strive in vain;
Malicious Rich would in our Loss delight,
And 'twould be Nuts to Rogers and to Knight.
14
In Market fam'd for Hay, a House full high,
With Sashes bright, and Wainscot Rooms have I;
Rich Beds, and Damask Chairs (I thank my Stars!)
And Cabinets are there with China Jars.
What hinders then, but I enjoy my Store,
As famous Bracegirdle has done before?
(Mock'd by Spectators, and by Poets crost)
And quit the Scenes where all my Glory's lost?
B.
Believe thy Bicknel, who thy Grief partakes,
So small a Slur, too great Impression makes:
I too was hiss'd, whom oft the self-same Crowd
Has seen with Raptures Dance, and clapt so loud;
Yet I'll act on, nor mind this Night's Disgrace,
And, spight of Criticks, dare to show my Face.
Oldf.
Ill-judging Beauties (tho' of high Degree)
Why did you force this wretched Part on me?
15
Whence came this Maggot in thy ancient Head?
Oh! that I had (with Booth and Wilks combin'd)
Obdurate as at first, not chang'd my Mind!
Or, since I could not from the Task be freed,
Had mimick'd Lady M---n, not Mrs. M---d.
B.
Who'd rage and fret to hear a Rabble hiss,
Or take the Frowns of those Cockards amiss?
For the Beau Monde contemns the roaring Boys,
And never joins with their infernal Noise.
Besides, O think, in thy full Beauty's Pride,
What Pity 'twere, a Form like Thine to hide:
Of Kings and Heroes I have often read,
Who, sick of Worldly Pomp, to Cells have fled;
But, one Example on the Stage produce,
When Actress in her Prime, e'er turn'd Recluse.
16
How frail is Woman! and how quickly breaks
The firm Resolves, and solemn Vows she makes!
At thy Persuasion, Girl, I will not quit,
Tho' us'd so ill by Galleries and Pit:
But if to serve that Envious Urchin's Spight,
I stand the Brunt of such another Night,
May Oldfield be the Sport of Grubstreet Bards,
At Ombre always lose, and curse the Cards.
B.
What if a Present then should tempt your Mind?
(To Presents few are Proof of Womankind:)
Should the Three Poets raise a pretty Sum,
And with full Purse, in humble Manner come;
If on the Store you chanc'd to cast your Eye,
O cou'd you, cou'd you Then, their Suit deny?
O.
In Gold there's wond'rous Eloquence, I grant;
Gold can break Prisons, and debauch a Saint;
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Since nothing's Proof to't then, ah! how should I?
But hark! who's entring here? I'll run away;
For by the clumsie Tread it should be Gay.
That, manage You, and bring them to our Lure,
For me a Present, and your self secure;
Else tell him, we are from our Promise freed;
There's nothing to be done, unless they bleed.
[Ex. Oldfield.
Enter Gay.
B.
to Oldf.]
Trust to my Art.
G.
At both my Friends Request,
I come, fair Bicknel, e'er you go to Rest.
B.
For what, good Sir?
G.
To give our Thanks, tho' poor,
For that kind Part which in our Play you bore.
18
Indeed!
G.
Ne'er trust me else.
B.
'Tis wond'rous civil;
But would your Friends and you were at the Devil.
G.
How, Madam!
B.
Nay, 'tis Truth; you need not stare!
My Sister Oldfield will the same declare.
I'll warrant now, you wonder why we fret,
Nor know the Treatment which this Night we met.
G.
Your Pardon, Fair One; yes, indeed, I know
Th'ungentle Mob was somewhat Rude, or so:
Is't That you mean?
B.
And is that nothing, pray?
To morrow Night let who will act your Play.
For she your Townley, and your Clinket I,
(Thanks to our Stars!) have other Fish to fry.
[Going.
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Holding her.]
Hold, Madam, hold! you'll have Regard, I hope,
If not to me, to Arbuthnott and Pope,
Those mighty Names!
B.
Why, what are they to me?
Once more, I say, Old Nick take all the Three.
Unhand me, Fool!
G.
O smooth those angry Brows!
Prevail on Oldfield, and our Cause espouse;
'Twere pity Three such Wits at once should break,
Our Honour, Fame, and Fortunes are at Stake.
B.
Then, let me tell you, If you break you may,
Three Fools well met; Pope, Arbuthnott, and Gay!
To save your Bacon we are not inclin'd,
Unless to win us some Device you find.
G.
musing]
Let's think—In Pastoral I'll make you speak,
And bring you both into my Shepherd's Week.
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And Hobbinol and Clout their Sinews try.
B.
'Twon't do.
G.
If you have Male or Female Foes,
These Sawney shall lampoon, I'll challenge Those.
B.
Our Quarrels to revenge, nor him to write,
Nor want we, valiant Sir, your self to fight.
G.
The Northern Poet shall your Doctor be,
Cure all your Pains, and never take a Fee;
With skilful Hand, shall save, whene'er you wed,
The Midwife's Charge, and bring you both to Bed.
B.
Nay, if you're sawcy, look, there lies the Door;
Begone, rash Clown, and see my Face no more.
[Going.
G.
O name the Charm, and do not, do not go!
B.
Then, to deal frankly, there's but one I know.
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What can that be?
B.
What? Are you then so dull!
With so much Wit, has Gay so thick a Scull?
I'll speak plain English then; We must be bought;
If hiss'd we are, we'll not be hiss'd for nought:
With far less Risque, and likelier much to pass,
She can act Shore, or I, the Northern Lass.
Something on Willis too were well bestow'd,
Or she'll not break her Back with such a Load;
The Desk to carry once for her's enough;
And so it is for us to speak your Stuff.
Unless those Arts you try, all else will fail;
And Guineas, Guineas only, can prevail.
[Ex. Bicknel.
22
solus.
There croakt a Raven in that dismal Voice:
What to resolve on now? 'Tis Hobson's Choice.
Severe Decree! These Women sure are Jews!
How will my Friends receive the dismal News?
With them how Matters stand, I partly know,
And sure I am, with me that Stock is low.
What to resolve on now? 'Tis Hobson's Choice.
Severe Decree! These Women sure are Jews!
How will my Friends receive the dismal News?
With them how Matters stand, I partly know,
And sure I am, with me that Stock is low.
O that, contented with my Servile State,
At some Bufet I still had held a Plate!
Or, not attempting Things beyond my Reach,
With Honest Aaron Hill improv'd the Beech!
Well! to the Wits at Bernard's strait I'll run;
Unless He helps, by G---, we're all undone.
At some Bufet I still had held a Plate!
Or, not attempting Things beyond my Reach,
With Honest Aaron Hill improv'd the Beech!
Well! to the Wits at Bernard's strait I'll run;
Unless He helps, by G---, we're all undone.
[Exit.
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