 | The Confederates |  |
1
SCENE I.
A Room in the Rose-Tavern, near the Play-House.Pope
solus.
[Arb. list'ning at the Door.
Thus in the Zenith of my Vogue I Reign,
And bless th'Abundance of my fertile Vein;
My pointed Satire aim alike at All,
(Foe to Mankind) and scatter round my Gall:
2
And from My Self my own Thersites draw.
This very Night, with Modern Strokes of Wit,
I charm the Boxes, and divert the Pit;
Safe from the Cudgel, stand secure of Praise;
Mine is the Credit, be the Danger Gay's.
[Arb. coming forward.
Hold, Brother! thou forget'st the Scenes I made;
This Boast of thine, is but a Gasconade:
3
Nor suffer Pride so far to swell thy Soul;
Then have not I to Praise an equal Claim?
And is not Arbuthnott as Great a Name?
P.
Since then so slyly thou hast lent an Ear,
Whilst I, deep musing, thought no Creature near;
Know, Caledonian, Thine's a simple Part,
Scarce any thing but some Quack-Terms of Art,
Hard Words, and Quibbles; but 'tis I that sting,
And on the Stage th'Ægyptian Lovers bring;
Miss Phœbe, Plotwell, Townley, all are Mine,
And Sir Tremendous:—Fossile's only Thine:
4
I'll write a Poem, e'er thou'lt give a Stool.
Ar.
Urge not my Wrath too far, presumptuous Loon!
For at a Wrong, we Scotchmen kindle soon:
My Glascow Muse to yield to thine disdains,
And can write Poems with as little Pains.
Defects thou dost observe in Human-kind;
But to Thy Own, art, like thy Homer, blind.
P.
Go, Doctor, go; thy Patients Pulses feel,
Handle the Syringe, or in Purges deal:
The Muses dwell not in thy Northern Air;
And Poetry's an Itch not catching there.
But cease; for should I give my Choler vent,
Thou might'st thy Rashness, but too late, repent:
5
With Shame and Madness, hang thy self, or drown.
Not Button's Wits from my Lampoons are free,
And Thou, and Blackmore are but Worms to me.
Ar.
Such Arrogance, ye Gods! what Man can bear?
I could—but ah! thou art not worth my Care.
This, by thy Death, would gain but small Renown:
Yet from yon Casement will I sling thee down,
Beat out thy Brains, and give Old Nick his Due,
Unless for Pardon thou dost quickly sue:
Vain Pigmy! thou might'st prove, without a Joke,
The Second Æsop then, whose Neck was broke.
6
I'll sooth his Rage; his Cheek with Anger glows;
Th'Odds are against me, should we come to Blows.
To Ar.]
I was to blame; forgive me, gentle Scot,
Why should Pope differ with his Arbuthnott?
Thoughtful and anxious for our first Essay,
I lost my Reason, and took Thee for Gay.
Ar.
Then let's embrace; for I have often try'd
That Lunaticks and Wits are near ally'd.
But say, What News? Our Fate I long to hear;
Tho' for the Play, there's little room to fear.
P.
'Tis now the Hour, if my Watch says right,
When weary'd Actors bid their Friends Good-night.
7
The Coaches rattle, and the Footmen run.
See! yonder Johnny comes with eager Pace!
Ar.
I wish his Looks portend us no Disgrace.
Enter Gay.
P.
Johnny, what News?
G.
My Grief scarce lets me tell!
But you may guess that Matters don't go well.
Ar.
Is the Play damn'd? They could not be so dull!
G.
'Tis Fact, Messieurs! and yet the House was full!
If you're such Scepticks, and the Truth would know,
To Mrs. Oldfield, or to Cibber go.
P.
Death to my Hopes!
Ar.
Come, let us hear the worst;
Of Wits ill-fated, we are not the first.
G.
Betimes, the better to conceal my Face,
In th'Eighteen-Penny Row I chose a Place;
8
And the loud Criticks of the Pit survey.
So vast a Throng took up the spacious Round,
Scarce for a Mouse, or You, had Room been found;
Heroes and Templers here were mix'd with Wits,
There Bawds and Strumpets, with a Group of Cits:
Rang'd in each Box were seen th'Angelick Fair,
Whose Footmen had since Two been posted there.
Round me I gaz'd with Wonder and Delight,
And wish'd that this had been the Poet's Night.
Ar.
It promis'd well.
G.
It did; but mark the End:
What boots a Croud, unless that Croud's your Friend?
The Prologue finish'd, in the Doctor came,
And with him, Hand in Hand, th'intriguing Dame.
9
The Men were hush'd, the Women ceas'd their Chat:
But soon a Murmur in the Pit began,
And thence all round the Theatre it ran;
The Noise increasing as along it mov'd,
Grew loud at last, and to a Hiss improv'd.
Nor Wit, nor Humour, could their Rage appease,
Clinket and Plotwell strove in vain to please;
Each smutty Phrase, and ev'ry cutting Line,
Was thrown away, and lost, like Pearls on Swine:
Some Females only (to the good old Cause
True Friends, I ween) gave Tokens of Applause.
Mean while, conceal'd, I sweating sate, as when
In Bagnio stew'd; and thought Three Hours Ten;
In greater Pain than Wight besieg'd by Duns,
Or trembling Soldier, who the Gantlet runs.
10
Then I'll henceforth shake Hands with Wit and Sense,
And Ballad-Writer from this Date commence.
Ar.
Henceforth my Paper I'll reserve for Bills,
And in my Labours wrap my Gilded Pills!
P.
Have I for this, ye Gods! for this, been crown'd
So Young with Lawrel, and so long Renown'd?
Made Lords and Ladies to my Works subscribe,
Now to be damn'd by such a noisy Tribe?
Ar.
Have I for this almost renounc'd my Art,
And of my Patients lost the greatest Part?
Better I had turn'd Quack, and kept a Stage,
Than toil'd and writ for such a senseless Age!
P.
But hold; we must not thus our Hopes give o'er,
The fam'd Rehearsal had this Fate before:
11
For most to damn what's understood by few;
Those who dislik'd our Crocodile and Mumm,
In Two Nights more may to their Relish come:
Mean while from sinking to preserve our Play,
To pack an Audience is the surest way;
For this Performance Patrons must be sought;
Let these but clap, their Seats shall cost them nought;
The rest, asham'd to hiss, will change their Noise:
So Ducks in Ponds are taken by Decoys.
G.
To find out Patrons asks no mighty Pain:
Not far from hence, there is a noted Lane,
Where Darby Captains ev'ry Night abound,
For Want of Valour, and of Pence renown'd:
These I'll engage; and that they may not fail,
Bribe them with Mutton-Chops, and Pots of Ale.
12
To Morrow to the Park my Course I steer,
Where good Duke Humphry's Guests dine half the Year,
If there are Charms in Pudding, Beef, and Wine,
Fear not; that famish'd Crew shall rival Thine.
Ar.
Your sev'ral Methods, Brethren, I commend;
At such a Pinch, what's matter who's our Friend?
With Tarts and Cheese-cakes to the Schools I'll run,
Secure some Boys; and then the Thing is done.
P.
Haste then, dear Gay, my other Heart's Delight,
Make sure your Sharpers for to Morrow Night:
But first to Oldfield, and to Bicknel go,
And give our Service, as full well you know;
Smoke how the Multitude's Contempt they bear,
Asswage their Anger, and appease the Fair;
Whilst at Friend Bernard's we our Doom console,
And drown our Sorrows in a cheerful Bowl.
[Exeunt.
| The Confederates | |