University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The great bell tolls, and the curtain rising slowly to solemn music, discovers a long Gothic aisle, six wings on each side, hung with black, and black curtains falling in drapery from the roof, ornamented with escutcheons, banners, ensigns armorial, helmet, crests, pendants, &c. In the center stands a coffin covered with crimson; a black pall flowing over it, a canopy, plumes, &c. At each wing stands a mourner, and at the head of the coffin, choristers.
Funeral Dirge by the Choristers.
A cold and breathless corse, behold, he lies;
His spirit fled far, far beyond the skies!
See where the plumed sable hearse doth stand!
Behold the mutes, a pensive, weeping band!
Virtue on earth adorn'd his manly breast;
Of fair and manly grace he was possest.
He knew nor harm nor guile, nor us'd deceit;
He liv'd belov'd, and all his death regret.
The grieving crouds lift up their mournful voice;
None but the Undertaker fell rejoice.

Undertaker.
Recitative.
Fall back, make room there, stand aloof,
A light is breaking through the roof.
Was ever seen so great a wonder?
Look at the joists they fly asunder!
What can it be descends in thunder?

[Thunder.
Melpomene, the Tragic Muse, cloathed in Royal Mourning, descends in a Chariot, a dead March playing.
Melpomene.
[Soft music.

Thalia, the Comic Muse, descends in a Chariot.
Thalia.
What is she, whose woe
Bears such an emphasis? Whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers?

Melpomene.
'Tis I, Melpomene; your sister muse.
Thalia—this is a sorry sight—

Thalia:

Alas, poor Punch! I knew him well, Melpomene.
A fellow of infinite jests; of most excellent
fancy; who held, as 'twere, the mirror up to
nature; to shew virtue her own feature, scorn her
own image, and the very age and body of the
time, his form and pressure. He was not one of
those robustuous, perriwig-pated fellows, who tear

a passion to very rags, and who, for the most part,
are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb
shew, and noise:—He ever suited the action to the
word, the word to the action:—He was a man of
wax, and all he has left behind, are dishclouts to
him. No more like him, than I to Hercules.

Melpomene.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.
O, what a grace was seated on his brow!
Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself!
O, 'twas a brow where honor might be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth!
An eye, like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald-Mercury,
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every God did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a Man.—
Com'st thou, Thalia, on purpose
To attend these obsequies?

Thalia.
No other cause on earth could bring me down
From mount Parnassus; or move me,
Laughter-loving goddess, thus to tremble,
Sob, or shed a tear; nor shake my solid virtue
For her point, but Punch's death.
O! let us cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
That all the world shall be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Melpomene.
[Death rises, cloath'd in royal robes, a diadem on his head.

Death.
Being immortal, thou hast never seen me.
But sure this dart, and mark of royal sovereignty
Upon my brow, should tell you, I am
Th'unerring executioner of Fate.—First born of Sin,
Begot by Satan.

Melpomene.
Alas—alas!

Death.
Your sorrow's vain.
You cannot free Punch from my chains with tears,
And too much grief still shews a lack of wit.
I am not to be mov'd.
You may as well go stand upon the beach,
And bid the main flood bate its usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise,
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven,
As bid me quit my prey. From ev'ry living creature
Life's my due. The flesh of Punch is mine,
And I stand here, upon the forfeit
And penalty of my bond.

Thalia.
What base, insatiate monster can he be?
AIR.

Death.
Ladies,—'tis my opinion you but sham;
You cannot sure be ign'rant who I am.
Tipstaff in chief I stand at old Time's forum,
Where I 'tend secula seculorum,
Regular as justice of the quorum.
As for you (to Thalia)
impudent Miss Virago,
Know I'm the true mortis imago.

Thalia.
Nay, sir, in English we request you'll speak;
Modern muses know not Latin, no, nor Greek.

Melpomene.
What is't you want, grim sir, pray let me know?
From this you shall not force poor Punch to go.
Shall he, of late so gay and sprightly, bow,
To such a bare-bon'd visage? Who art thou?

Death.
O, don't you ken me? I will tell you then:
'Tis I who conquer all the sons of men:
No pitch of honor from my dart is free;
My name is Death; have you not heard of me?

Melpomene.
It is in vain; his obdurate heart
Cannot be mov'd. 'Tis more inexorable far
Than roaring lions, or the raging sea.
But Time will one day trample on your power,
(To Death.
And even Death shall die.

(Jovial music.
Enter Pan.
Pan.
By the law-harry, this is right good fun,
And here comes jolly Bacchus on his tun.
Melpomene is't you? Thalia sure!
Ladies I'm yours—votre' serviteur.
AIR.

Enter Bacchus riding on a Tun, drawn by Tigers, a large Punch-bowl in his hands.
Bacchus.
Come, drink, my fair one's of the sky,
Swill deep with me, and swill as I;
Pull hearty; grief is always dry.
Here's liquor would inspire Hector,
Sweeter than celestial nectar;
'Tis genuine Antigua rum,
Would make cats speak, or wise men dumb.
Tho' you've the body; (To Death.)
in this bowl,
I have secur'd friend Punch's soul.
AIR.

[Drinks.
Melpomene.
I think I'll take a very little sup;
Here, Bacchus, pour it in my poison cup.
Good liquor always drowns vexation:—
Punch, here's a draught to your translation.

[Drinks.
Thalia.
No pippin-squeezer I, but will drink free
As any lady of the Coterie;
Whether plain brandy, wine, or ratifia.

[Drinks.
Pan.
Well pull'd, by Jove—no flincher is Thalia.
Zounds, sh'as a swallow equal to Goliah.

Melpomene.
My head grows giddy (hiccups.)
I stand in amaze: (hic)

Nay, miss Thalia—men— (hiccups.)
you need not gaze—

Thalia.
You crying— (hiccups)
whining crocodile—you punk—
Demme—demme—but—I—be—lieve you're drunk—
What care I—madam—for all your driv'ling.
Get out of this— (hiccups)
or else leave off—your sniv'ling.

Melpomene.
By you, pert madam—I won't be rated;
I say, you lie—I'm not in—tox—i—cated.
Tho' I was always 'steem'd an honest fellow,
Yet, at this juncture, I am—but mellow.
If you dare meet me fair at fifty blows,
I'll still make flatter, mem, your snubby nose.
True—I am somewhat drowsy grown with weeping,
But that at all times I can cure—with sleeping.

[Sleeps.
Thalia.
I'm too inclin'd to nap—farewell good Pan—
Bacchus, bon soir—we'll yet have t'other cann.

[Sleeps.
Undertaker.
RECITATIVE.
Lift up this son of joy and mirth,
And lay him with his mother earth;
Forth from his flesh may vi'lets spring:
Now let the church-bell once more ring.

[Bell tolls.
Soft Music.
Bacchus.
Hark! I hear soft music play:
And lo! Apollo hies away.

Apollo descends in a Chariot, drawn by Pegasus.
Apollo.
O stop your hand, you rash, you foolish ass,
I am come down from mount Parnass'.
The sister muses of the azure sky,
Sent me, as Plenipo, in their Dilly.
Drawn by Pegasus, their fav'rite steed,
Because their orders needed special speed.
At first a seat I did intend to try
In the new set-up Literary Fly:
But there I found so many fools had places,
Their weight, I fear'd, would quickly crack the traces.
O, heavens! in what wretched plight I see,
Divine Thalia, and Melpomene!
Sure they're not sunk into ebriety!

Bacchus.
The nymphs did take a gulp too much, or so,
Which seiz'd upon their craniums mal à-propos.
But friend Apollo, do not fume nor fret,
Tipling's a common breach of etiquette.
AIR.

Apollo.
Now, indeed, may Genius mourn and weep,
Since Tragedy and Comedy both sleep;
Since dulness has besotted the two wenches,
No wonder actors play to empty benches.
Art thou here, Master Death?—Bon jour, bon jour—
I am sent down from Heav'n Punch to cure.

Death.
Thou know'st Apollo, all that live must die,
Passing thro' Nature to Eternity.
Are you to make this man a deity?
Well, I won't budge till you your power try.

Apollo.

Are you ignorant, good man Death, that I am
the god of medicine, and keeper of the Promethean
fire; that Esculapius was my pupil, and that
the College of Physicians are my disciples?

Death.

Since that is the case, friend Apollo, I shall wave
my claim to Master Punch, and will not quarrel
for a single life, or so. I am under very particular
obligations to the College of Physicians. Neither
the Penal laws of England, the Inquisition of
Spain, or Religious Persecution, send so many subjects
to my realm, as the Gentlemen of the Faculty.

Apollo.

You do not mean regular bred Doctors, I
hope. You must be speaking of Quacks and
Mountebanks.

Death.

Pardonnez moi;—I am speaking of your followers
of Galen, Hippocrates, Albumazar, and Paracelsus,
who kill by regimen, and the golden rule of
of physic. Readers of Greek and Latin, who
come commissioned with diplomas from the Universities.
Doctors are my Recruiting Serjeants;

Apothecaries my Corporals; and Chymists my
Muster-masters. As to Quacks, they are my
Swiss auxiliaries; every pill they administer has
the effect of a bullet; and they do me as much
service as storms and earthquakes.

Apollo.
Recitative.
AIR.

Death.
Your incantation, Apollo, works but slowly.
You had best send to the Society for Recovering
Drowned Persons, and borrow their apparatus,
to set your patient's lungs in motion.

Apollo.
You tipstaff, Death, about your bus'ness hie;
I bring from Jove a noli prosequi.
For Punch's body Jupiter thought fit,
To send by me his habeas corpus writ:
Answer me—Do you traverse, or submit?
Shake not your head,—avaunt, and quit my sight!
For Jove decrees, that Punch shall come to light.

Death.
Sir Pol, you need so severely snub,
Or, for a trifle, kick up a hubbub.
Pray don't insist upon it I should go,
But let me stay and see the Raree-shew.

[The coffin falls asunder, and discovers Punch.
Punch.
Recitative.
[Punch rises.
AIR.

Apollo.
Ladies arise, get up, for shame awake,
And Somnus from your drowsy senses shake.
Recitative.

[Exeunt Mourners.
Bacchus.
For my part, Pol, I am engaged to hunt.
On, Master Pan,—you and I'll exeunt.

[Exeunt Bacchus and Pan.
Thalia.
Far hence what e'er can agonize the soul,
Grief, terror, rage, dagger, and poison'd bowl:
The Comic Muse, free, gay, propitious pow'r,
To dimpled laughter gives the mirthful hour.
AIR.

Melpomene.
What says grim Death?—Will you with us be merry?

Death.
No, thank you, I'm engag'd at Pondicherry.
There I have Frenchmen lying dead in gross;
The Englishmen have giv'n them coup-de-grace.
Adieu—I must fly off to 'tend the war;
The East wind blows—I snuff the carrion from afar.

[Death flies off.
Martial music, clouds descend, with a figure of the late Samuel Foote, of satirical memory, surrounded by emblems of Satire, enclosed in a wreath of thistles and nettles, dressed in the character of Asmodeus, in the Devil upon Two Sticks.
Melpomene.
Punch, let me lead you to your chair,
Of Parnassus you're dubb'd Sub-May'r.
With my right hand I take you as my own,
To place you on your glorious well-earn'd throne;
Under the man, who often, with shrewd tricks,
Was us'd to play the Devil—on Two Sticks.

Thalia.
And to me give your other hand.
Here, mighty Punch, you're to command,
As Locum Tenens to Apollo.
Huzza, huzza, let us all hallo.

[All huzza.
Punch.
Such politeness I never saw,
Ladies you're true Je-ne-scai-quoi,
A-la-mode Francois—Débonnaire,
And fit my humour to a hair.
Hail, ye Goddesses divine,
Take these simple thanks of mine.
Oft before my life was ended,
'Twixt you I have stood suspended,
Like a Peer's arms, with beast supporters,
Or drunken man held up by porters.
Melpomene, if't please you, I would fain,
Take just one peep at poor old Drury-Lane.

Apollo.
No Punch, at Parnassus you're wanted;
That is a favour cannot be granted.
But nothing in the power of the Muse,
That Punch can wish to ask, will she refuse.

Punch.
Then tell me, Muses, what is the reason,
That you have both in the playing season,
Left the Theatres without protection?
Is it the effect of new direction?
I never did approve the Partnership;
And fear the Stage, and Managers—will trip.

Melpomene.
My good friend Punch, you must not be surpriz'd;
For know the Drama is monopoliz'd.
Poets of merit now are all adrift,
My fav'rite sons are put to their last shift:
No piece permitted on the stage t'appear,
But what's receiv'd through interest or fear.
From Covent-Garden Theatre I fled,
Scar'd by the bombast fustian of—Buthred.
And from Old Drury I was forc'd to fly,
By an inhuman—Law of Lombardy.
Nor had poor Comedy a better fate;
She too was forc'd to quit her ancient seat:
Her works cut up to answer sing-song rhymes,
For Preludes, and for Speaking Pantomimes.
Congreve and Farquhar now in vain we seek;
Instead of them, we see—the Devil's Peak.
But come, good Punch, you now with us must rise,
A Power immortal, to the highest skies.

Apollo.
AIR.
All shall yield to this great prodigy,
All shall yield to this great prodigy;
None like thee, O Punch, can be;
None like thee, O Punch, can be;
Matchless was he, we ne'er shall see
The like again of immortal he.
The like again of immortal he.

The clouds ascend. The mourners enter and sing the words of the above Air in chorus.
[Exeunt.