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The Confederates

A Farce

Breval, John (1680?-1738)

THE CONFEDERATES:

SCENE III.

A Congratulatory POEM; Inscribed to Mr. Gay, on his Valour and Success behind Drury-Lane Scenes.

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SCENE III.

Lintott's House.
ARB. POPE, CIBBER, LINTOTT.
Cib.
Well, Gentlemen, since I'm uncas'd and free,
In Pasteboard you'll no more imprison me.
You may your Fossile make of Honest Ben,
And turn my Rival to a Beast again:
But I'll no Mummy be, to make you laugh;
Nor shall you catch Old Birds, like Coll, with Chaff.
In twice Ten Years that I the Stage have trod,
I've worn a Thousand Habits wond'rous odd;
Still, Proteus-like, in some New Form appear'd,
But never in my Life was yet so jeer'd:

With Hieroglyphicks on my Back and Breast
Embroider'd o'er! why, sure you were possest.
In former Ages, no such motly Piece,
Was known to Antient Italy or Greece:
Here bawdy Prose, and there of Verse a Scrap;
How could you dream the Company would clap?
Such Monsters breeds your Nile (the Learned say)
One Half is Frog, and t'other Half is Clay.

Ar.
Be not, good Cibber, on your Friends so smart
The Drama was compos'd with wond'rous Art:
The Author's not in fault, for all your haste;
The Play was damn'd; but the Town's want or Taste
Twice more to Act, O do not then refuse!
And some small Freedoms with your self excuse.

C.
Those Freedoms I'd forgive, if mixt with Sense,
And pass a Jest, tho' at my own Expence;
But stupid Satire, who alive can bear,
That writes himself, or does Toledo wear?
Urge me no more; against the Stream you drive;
My Bulls and Bears I would as soon revive.

P.
If I remember well, this many a Day,
Thou, Colly, on the Stocks hast had a Play:
Come, let thy Talent lye no longer hid,
I'll to Perfection bring the mighty Cid:
So shall thy Fame increase, and eke thy Store,
Altho' thy Scenes have been condemn'd before.
In Buskins I'll equip thy Tragick Muse,
And Shakespear shall himself his Credit lose:

For these damn'd Criticks, we'll not care a Rush,
And make ev'n Tamerlane, and Cato blush.

C.
aside.]

Pernicious Tempter! what a Bait is there!
Shall Colly then once more the Buskin wear?
What stubborn Mind such Proffers can resist?
And at that Price, who would not dare be hiss'd?

To Pope.]
The Cid indeed I ventur'd to Translate,
But for my Hero, fear'd Perolla's Fate:
Then since this Matter thou hast mov'd to me,
Thou shalt for once my Supervisor be;
For, Alexander, if I know thee right,
Thou hast of late mistook thy Talent quite:
A Giant often proves a rank Pultroon,
And ev'ry Pigmy is not born Buffoon:

Yet who can tell, altho' thy Farce is vile,
How Folks may like thy Sophoclean Stile?

P.
'Twas I that made the King of Men to speak
Far better in our Tongue, than Homer's Greek;
And taught the Pelian Chief to rant and swear
In English, with a much more Martial Air:
O doubt not then, if thou our Friend wilt be,
But I'll do Justice to Corneille and Thee,
And e'er it's long, on some auspicious Night,
Thy Hans en Kelder Poem bring to light.

C.
I yield, I yield, my stubborn Heart's o'ercome,
No longer Proof to such a Sugar-plumb.
In Swadling-Clouts once more I'll stand the Shock,
And Rival for your sakes my Brother Croc;

Tho' ev'ry Critick could out-hiss a Snake,
And louder Noise than Milton's Devils make.

Lint.
Good Mr. Cibber, if it be no Crime,
Let me your Copy pray bespeak in Time:
And if you crowd among your Tragick Stile,
A little Humour, that will make one smile,
(I found that Want, in Phædra once before)
No Brother of the Press shall give you more:
For who in Fleetstreet, or in Warwick Lane,
Rewards like me, the Labours of the Brain?

C.
I thank thee, Bernard, that's a Point of weight,
Which, if I thrive, we'll argue tête à tête.
[To Pope and Arb.
Mean while, I'll serve your Cause the best I can,
And keep my Brethren steady to a Man.
[Exit Cibber.

P.
Damn'd Blockhead! not to see so plain a Bite!
I mend his Play!—I will as soon go fight:
'Tis good, however, to amuse, him thus,
And make the Fool believe he's one of Us;
To help our Purpose, let him do his best,
By G---, I'll serve him as I serv'd the rest.
Ah! here comes Brother Gay!

Enter Gay.
Arb.
As pale as Death;
Sweating big Drops, and almost out of Breath!

P.
The Matter? I'm in Pain!

A.
I long to hear!

G.
Nay, we're undone, the Case, my Friends, is clear;
Worse Tidings now I bring you than before;
Oldfield and Bicknel vow they'll act no more.

A.
Can this be true?

G.
True, as my Name is Gay,
Unless you bleed, and for the Favour pay.

P.
Damn'd mercenary Jilts!

A.
I would bestow,
If that might serve, a Pair of Gloves, or so.

G.
That Bounty, Sir, I fear, will not succeed;
Of Guineas, not of Gloves, they stand in need.

P.
as going]
I'll go my self, and bring the Gipsies over

G.
You may your Namesake bring as soon to Dover
What Man could speak, was by your Johnny spoke
But all he said, alas! was turn'd to Joke.
Bicknel, that Devil! for the rest were fled,
Pronounc'd the dreadful Words, and struck me dead.

Lintott
aside.]
I've bought their Copy! How my Heart does ake!
Pity, ye Gods! if he says true, I break!

P.
What's to be done?

G.
I, for my part, am poor,
Have clear'd my Lodgings, and my Ale-house Score.

A.
Next Spring I take at Glascow my Degrees,
And for this Twelve-month past, have had no Fees.

Pope
aside to Gay, and Arb.]
Ah! had that cursed Homer sold but well,
I might have squeez'd from Him a little Spell.
There's nothing for't but that; and yet I'll try:
Bernard, 'tis You that must the Purse unty.

L.
I'll tye a Rope about my Neck as soon;
No, Gentlemen, 'tis not with me full Moon.

G.
But Forty Pieces; 'tis a Sum so small,
The Poet's Night will make Amends for all.

A.
Do, gentle Bernard, 'tis a Bagatelle.

L.
Zoons! why the Play will neither Act, nor Sell.

P.
Ungrateful Man! Fame's Temple, call to mind,
My Forest, Rape, and Satires on Mankind;
Think, how by These thou hast increas'd thy Store.

L.
Look on your Homer, there, behind the Door.
Thou little dream'st what Crowds I daily see,
That call for Tickell, and that spurn at Thee!
Neglected there, your Prince of Poets lyes,
By Dennis justly damn'd, and kept for Pyes.
Alas! his Outside I enrich in vain,
And by the Gilding, Custom hope to gain:
With some dull Fop, perhaps, the Book may pass,
And help to make a Show in Case of Glass.
But your fam'd Heroes, with their warlike Bands,
Grace the same Shelf where Ogilby now stands,
And rot on mine, or on Subscribers Hands.

Ar.
Is Bernard grown so hard then, to be struck?
Sure some She-Wolf, or Tygress gave thee suck!

P.
Sure thou wert born, O Man renown'd for Print,
In Stratford-Stony, or in Shire of Flint!

L.
For all your Puns, I shall not at this Age,
Turn Bedlam Commoner, or Gotham Sage:
You may with Curll your Quarrel now repent,
Or else to him you might for Help have sent:
But he with Ballads will debauch the Town,
And cloud your small Remainder of Renown.
Your quondam Vogue is now for ever lost;
As sure as on my Sign Two Keys are cross'd.

Ev'n T---r, whom you call Senseless Drone,
Trusts to your Comedy, to save his own.

Enter Boy, with a Footman.
Boy.
This Footman wants to speak with Mr. Pope.

P.
Bid him advance: Some kind Relief, I hope.
Who come you from?

Footm.
Three Ladies known full well;
Their Names are G---n, B---ne, L---p---l;
This Purse of Gold, and Letter, Sir, they send.

[Gives them.
P.
O my good Stars!—Pray wait a little, Friend.

Reads.]

Sir,

Your Wit, by noisy Fools ill understood,
We thank you for, and deem it wond'rous good:
The turns are fine, the Repartees are smart,
And smutty Jests hook'd in with wond'rous Art;
Tho' not, indeed, in cleanest Linnen wrapt,
They pleas'd our Fancies, and by us were clapp'd.
We partly guess'd what's what some time before;
But your kind Lessons have improv'd us more:
Then pray accept this little Purse of Gold,
And let us be among your Friends enroll'd.

You, and your Brethren, we'll be glad to see,
In Street call'd Gerrard, when we drink our Tea.

P.
What Harmony sounds here in ev'ry Line!
And how these Guineas chink! and how they shine!
To the Footman.]
Here, Friend, take This; commend me to the Dames,
And for this Bounty, I'll record their Names.
[Exit Man.
To Lintott.]
Lintott, henceforth you print my Works no more.

L.
Command me, Sir, my Wife, and all my Store!
Forgive your Bernard, and you ne'er shall want
Wine, Guineas, nor Tit-bits most Elegant:
Nay, to my Suit a pitying Ear incline,
I'll put your Head up, and take down my Sign.

Mr. Johnson.

Mr. Penkethman.

See the Scene between Mummy, Crocodile, and Townley

Herodotus, and many other Accounts of Ægypt.

See, in the Key, what a Property they make of Cibber.

A Farce of Mr. Cibber's.

A French Tragedy of Corneille's, Translated by Mr. Cibber. Vide Key.

Two Excellent Tragedies of Mr. Rowe's, and Mr. Addison's.

Perolla and Izadora. A Tragedy by Mr. Cibber.

Tragick Stile; from Sophocles, the Greek Tragedian.

Agamemnon.

Achilles.

A Dutch Phrase, for a Child in the Mother's Belly.

See the Scene of Mummy and Crocodile.

See Milton's Paradise Lost.

Mr. Lintott dislik'd Phædra for want of Humour.

Places famous for Printers.

'Tis said, he paid Fifty Guineas for it.

Several Poems of Mr. Pope's.

He Translated the First Book of the Iliad.

Dennis's Remarks upon Pope's Homer.

See Mr. Cobb's Tripos. It was not thought improper to make the Poet pun here; he having done it in the Play.

A Madman, or a Fool.

The Author of The Artful Husband, which succeeded.

See The Court Ballad.

So he did in the Court Ballad presently after.