The Apotheosis of Punch A Satirical Masque : With A Monody On the Death of the late Master Punch |
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| 2. | SCENE II. |
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 | The Apotheosis of Punch |  |
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SCENE II.
Before the Curtain.Enter Roscius Secundus, as Prologue.
The lab'ring bee, when his sharp sting is gone,
Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone.
Such is a Satire, when you take away
That rage in which his noble vigour lay.
The honey-bag and venom lay so near,
That both together you resolved to tear,
And lost your pleasure to secure your fear.
This is plain levelling of wit; in which
The poor has all th'advantage, not the rich.
The blockhead stands excus'd for want of sense,
And wits turn blockheads in their own defence.
Yet tho' the Stage's traffic is undone,
Still Scandal, with her smuggling trade, goes on.
Tho' Satire on the Theatre you smot her,
In paragraphs you libel one another.
Each flaming patriot who would rule the roast,
We find dissected in the—Morning Post.
While those who get in place, and think they're wiser,
Are butcher'd in the—General Advertiser.
Your Magazines with Scandal are replete,
And monthly damn a brace in—tête-à-tête.
Like desp'rate pirates they refuse all quarter,
Wives, widows, virgins, suffer in the slaughter.
Yet women sure are privileg'd from war;
'Tis not like knights to draw upon the fair,
Tho' true of late they act en militaire.
Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone.
Such is a Satire, when you take away
That rage in which his noble vigour lay.
The honey-bag and venom lay so near,
That both together you resolved to tear,
And lost your pleasure to secure your fear.
This is plain levelling of wit; in which
The poor has all th'advantage, not the rich.
The blockhead stands excus'd for want of sense,
And wits turn blockheads in their own defence.
Yet tho' the Stage's traffic is undone,
Still Scandal, with her smuggling trade, goes on.
Tho' Satire on the Theatre you smot her,
In paragraphs you libel one another.
Each flaming patriot who would rule the roast,
We find dissected in the—Morning Post.
While those who get in place, and think they're wiser,
Are butcher'd in the—General Advertiser.
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And monthly damn a brace in—tête-à-tête.
Like desp'rate pirates they refuse all quarter,
Wives, widows, virgins, suffer in the slaughter.
Yet women sure are privileg'd from war;
'Tis not like knights to draw upon the fair,
Tho' true of late they act en militaire.
On this our poor epitome of stage,
Against the vicious, mortal war we wage:
Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise.
Against the vicious, mortal war we wage:
Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise.
We've tragic heroes here of mandrake root;
Comedians cut from leg of poor Sam Foote.
Our poet, too, as you this night will see,
Is mostly made of Shakespeare's mulb'ry-tree.
All that is not his own, you'll find is good;
He steals, like other modern bards, of—wood,
Who cook up broken viands in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, mixed with flesh and fish.
Nay, ladies, do not laugh, tho' small, I'm mighty,
My heart is English oak, my head is lignum vitæ.
Comedians cut from leg of poor Sam Foote.
Our poet, too, as you this night will see,
Is mostly made of Shakespeare's mulb'ry-tree.
All that is not his own, you'll find is good;
He steals, like other modern bards, of—wood,
Who cook up broken viands in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, mixed with flesh and fish.
Nay, ladies, do not laugh, tho' small, I'm mighty,
My heart is English oak, my head is lignum vitæ.
[Exit.
| The Apotheosis of Punch | |