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Cobler.
The Publick having given a very kind Reception to all Productions of this Nature that have appear'd for some time, we have reason to hope that this, which we flatter our selves is not inferiour to them, will likewise meet with their Acceptance; we have reason to hope so, I say, because the Characters are affecting, as they may be every Man's Lot who runs his Neck into the Marriage Noose, since every One who marries is liable to have a domineering Wife, who will aspire at wearing the Breeches, tho' G—d help the Men whose hard Lot it is to fall under Petticoat Government. A Presbyterian Lecture is, I believe, no very agreeable Amusement to any Man of Sense, especially if it is, as most of them are, very long Winded, but it is my Opinion that a Curtain Lecture is ten times more disagreeable as it is generally something more Sonorous, and much more long Winded; for set a Woman's Clack but once a going, and the Devil himself can't stop it, till the Alarm, like that of a Clock, runs down of it self. We have known in History, that even Sovereign Princes have not been exempted from such Female Furies; even one of the most arbitrary Emperors of Turkey had a Roxolana that held his Nose to the Grindstone. But I will not anticipate the Reader's Pleasure by detaining him too long in the Porch, but only wish him as much Satisfaction in the perusal as I had my self, and then I am sure he will not grudge the Price he pays for it.
Scriblerus and a Player.
Player.
Upon my word, Mr. Scriblerus, you write Plays, (or
something like Plays) faster than we can act them, or the Town damn
them; I hope your Opera will take up more time in Running than it hath
in Writing. But pray, why do you call it a Welsh one, since
there is not a Word of Welsh in it?
Scrib.
Because the Scene lies in Wales, as the Village Opera,
because the Scene lies in a Village, or the Scots Opera, because
the Scene lies in Scotland.
Player.
Do you not think the Town will expect Welsh in it from its
Title?
Scrib.
No, Sir, the Town is too well acquainted with Modern Authors, to
expect any thing from a Title. A Tragedy often proves a Comedy; a
Comedy a Tragedy; and an Opera nothing at all—I have seen a Tragedy
without any Distress, a Comedy without a Jest, and an Opera without
Musick.
Player.
I wish, Sir, you had kept within the Rules of Probability in your
Plot, if I may call it so.
Scrib.
It is the Business of a Poet to surprize his Audience, especially
a Writer of Opera's—the discovery, Sir, should be as no one could
understand how it could be brought about, before it is made.
Player.
No, and I defy them to understand yours after it is made—.
Scrib.
Well, but I have a Witch to solve all that— I know some Authors
who have made as strange Discoveries without any Witch at all.
Player.
You have been kind indeed to lay your Jealousy with a Witch, and
it would have been as kind in you to have brought in a Conjurer to have
rais'd it. For I am mistaken if any but a Conjurer can imagine how it
is rais'd.
Scrib.
Jealousy, Sir, is an unaccountable Passion— one Man is jealous
from the Beauty of his Wife, another from her Wit, a third from her
Folly,—and a fourth from his own Folly.
Player.
And a fifth from the Folly of the Poets.— But I think Jealousy
a tragical Passion, and more proper to Tragedy than Comedy.
Scrib.
Oh fie, you might as well say that Smiles are not proper to
Tragedy—There is your Tragical Jealousy, and Comical Jealousy; your
Tragical Jealousy is between Kings and Heroes; your Comical between
Gentlemen and Servants; your Tragical produces its effect before it is
discover'd; your Comical is discover'd before its effect; and as in
Tragedy all dye, so in Comedy all are married.
Player.
And it is a Question, which is the most Tragical End of the two.
Scrib.
Smiles are also Tragical and Comical—the— so have I seen
belongs to Tragedy—the—as then to Comedy, I think, I may say, the
Smiles I have introduc'd in this Opera are all entirely New, not like
any thing that has been produc'd before.
Player.
No, upon my Word, they are as unlike any thing else, as they are
the things they are compar'd too.
Scrib.
Sir, if a Smile be very unlike, it is as well as if it be very
like,—So have I not seen is as well as, so have I seen, and agad—I
dont know whether it does not sometimes surprize more.
Scrib.
Hey—to be a sort of walking Notes.
Enter Second Player.
2d. Player.
Sir, Mr. Davenport will not go on without a Pair of white
Gloves, and Mrs. Jones who play'd Huncamunca, insists on
a Dram before she goes on, for Madam ap Shinken; as for Mrs.
Clark, the King has fall'n so heavy upon her that he has almost
squeez'd her Guts out, and it's a Question whether she will be able to
Sing or no.
Scrib.
Pox on 'em, bid 'em begin any way,—I'll burn my four dozen of
Opera's, and six dozen of Tragedies, and never give 'em another.
Player.
Good God's! what a Fury is an incens'd Author.
'Squire Ap-Shinkin's House. A Table and Chairs.
'Squire Ap-Shinken and Puzzletext Smoaking.
Ap-Shinkin.
Come Mr. Puzzletext, it is your Glass.—Let us make haste
and finish our Breakfast before Madam is up.—Oh! Puzzletext,
what a fine Thing it is for a Man of my Estate to stand in fear of his
Wife, that I dare not get drunk so much as—once a Day, without
being call'd to an Account for it.
Puz.
Petticoat Government is a very lamentable Thing indeed—but it
is the Fate of many an honest Gentleman.
Mrs. Ap-Shipkin, Mr. Ap-Shipkin, Puzzletext.
Mrs. Ap-Sh.Puz.
I ask your Ladyship's Pardon, I profess I have scarce drank your
Health this Morning; and Wine while it contributeth only to the
Chearing of the Heart, is not forbidden to us.—I am an Enemy to
Excess.—But as far as the second Bottle; and to some Constitutions
the third, it is no doubt allowable.—And I do remember to have
preach'd with much Perspicuity even after the fourth.
Puz.
To some it may,—to others it may not. —Excess dependeth not
on the Quantity that is drank,—but on the Quality of him who
drinketh.
Puz.
Oh! Madam, no one more, your Ladyship is the Honour of your Sex
in that Study; and may properly be term'd the great Welsh Lamp
of Divinity.
Puz.
Which of the Maids, Madam.—Not one of my Mistresses I hope.
Puz.
What Methods shall we take in order thereto.
Puz.
Love in a young Mind, is powerful indeed.
AIR II. (Lads of Dunce.)
[1.]
If Love gets into a Soldier's Heart,
He puts off his Helmit, his Bow, and his Dart,
Achilles charm'd with a Nymph's fair Eye,
A Distaff took, and his Arms laid by.
(2.)
The gay Gods of old their Heaven would quit,
And leave their Ambrosia for Moral tid Bit,
The first of that Tribe that Whore-master Jove,
Prefer'd to all Heavens, that Heaven of Love. Mrs. Ap-Sh.
Two of the Maids I think you have already ask'd in the
Church—and I believe you will find no great Difficulty to prevail on
the others —this I assure you—I shall not forget the Favours. I
am now going to take a short Airing in the Park in my own
Chaise, and I would have you remember we have no Time to loose.
(Owen alone.)
Ow.
Say you so, my good Madam, Mother and Mr. Parson, I shall
be too hard for you both—this is one of the finest Schemes I ever
heard of—if you will keep me from marrying, you shall marry all the
Women in Wales.—But though you happen to have mistaken the
Woman. I will spoil your Stratagem for Mischief-sake.—I'll write a
Brace of Letters—one from Susan to Robin, and the
other from William to Switissa—these two Letters will
I put into their Pockets upon their Handkerchiefs; when they pull out
their Handkerchiefs to blow their Noses, they will drop the Letters,
upon which a Jealousy will arise between them, and the Match be
prevented.
Puzzletext and Owen.
Puz.
Mr. Owen, I have been searching for you, I am come Child
to give you some good Instructions, I am sorry to hear you have an
Intention to Disgrace your Family by a Marriage inferior to your
Birth.
Owen.
Do not trouble your Head with my Marriage, good Mr. Parson
—when I marry, 'twill be to please my self, not you.
AIR III. (March in Scipio.)
Think mighty Sir—think e'er you are undone,
Think who you are, Ap-Shinkin's eldest Son,
At Oxford you have been—At London Eke also,
You're almost half a Man-and more than half a Beau,
Oh do not then disgrace the great Actions of your Life,
Nor let Ap-Shipkin's Son be buried in his Wife. Puz.
You must govern your Passions, Master Owen.
Owen.
You may preach Mr. Parson, but I shall very little regard
you, there is nothing so ridiculous as to hear an old Fellow railing
at Love.—
Puz.
It is like a young Fellow's railing at Age.
Owen.
Or a Courtier out of Place at Court.
AIR IV. (Tho' I cannot.)
The worn out Rake at Pleasure Rails,
And Crys 'tis all Idle and Fleeting,
At Court the Man whose Interest fails,
Crys all is Corruption and Cheating.
But would you know,
Whence both these flow.
Tho' too much they pretend to abhor 'em,
That rails at Court,
This at Love's Sport.
Because they are neither fit for 'em,
Fit for 'em.
Because they are neither fit for 'em. Owen.
Besides Doctor, I fancy you have not always govern'd your own
Passions, tho' you are so fond in correcting others, as a Poet
Burlesques the Nonsense of others, while he writes the greatest
Nonsense himself.
Puz.
Or as a Prude corrects the Vices of others, while she is more
Vicious her self.—
Owen.
Or as a Parson Preaches against drinking, and then goes to the
Ale-house.
Puz.
Very true (if you mean a Presbyterian Parson.)
AIR V. (One Evening having lost my Way).
I've heard a Noncon Parson preach,
'Gainst Whoring with just Disdain,
Whilst he himself to be naught, did teach,
Of females a large a Train.
As Stars in Sky, or Lamps in Street,
Or Beauty's in the Mall we meet.
Or as—or as, or as,
Or as Whores in Drury-Lane.— Owen.
Thy Similes are all Froth like bottled Ale—and it is as
difficult to get the out of a Simile, as out of an Ale-house.—
AIR VI. (Dutch Skipper.) Puz.
The gaudy Sun adorning,
With brightest Rays the Morning;
The Morning.
Shines o're the Easten Hill,
And I will go a Sporting. Owen.
And I will go a Courting,
A Courting,
There lies my Pleasure still. Puz.
In Gaffer Woodford's Ground,
A brushing Hare is found.
A Course which even Kings themselves might see, Owen.
And in another Place,
There lies a brushing Lass.
Which will give ten times more Sport than she.
(Second Part.) Puz.
What Pleasure to see while the Greyhounds are running,
Poor Puss's cunning, and shifting and shunning.
To see with what Art, she plays still her part.
And leaves her Pursuers afar.
First this Way, then that,
First a stretch, and then a Squat.
Till quite out of Breath,
She yields her to Death.
What Joys with the Sportman's compare. Owen.
How sweet to behold the soft blooming Lass,
With blushing Face, claspt close in Embrace,
To feel her Breasts rise—see Joy fill her Eyes.
And Float on her Heaven of Charms.
While sighing and whining,
And twisting and twining,
With kissing and pressing,
And fondest caressing.
With Raptures she dies in your Arms.
[Exeunt.
Sweetissa, Margery.
Sweet.
If ever you had known what it was to love Margery, you
would not have wonder'd how I could prefer—a Man to his Master.
Marg.
I should not have wonder'd, indeed, if our young 'Squire had been
like most other young Country 'Squires—but he is a fine Gentleman,
Sweetissa.
Sweet.
Before I went to London, Margery—he might have had some
Charms for me—But you must know, my Dear, my young Master is a
Beau— and a Beau is a Creature for whom I have the greatest
Contempt—Why should one marry a Beau—when one can have as much of
him without Marriage as with it;—A Beau, like a Shadow, is only to
be seen: Oh! I would no more think of making such a Creature my
Husband, than of riding to London on a Hobby-Horse.
AIR VII. (Bessy Bell.)
In long Pig-Tales, and shining Lace,
Our Beaus set out a Wooing;
Ye Widows never show them Grace,
But laugh at their pursuing.
But let the Daw, that shines so bright,
Of borrow'd Plumes bereft be;
Alas! poor Dame, how naked's the Sight,
You'll find there's nothing left ye.
Oh! Margery, there's more in Robin's Littlefinger
than in a Beau's whole Body.
Robin.
Oh! my Sweetissa, thou art straiter than the straitest
Tree; sweeter than the sweetest Flower—Thy Hand as white as Milk,
and as warm, thy Breast is white as Snow, and as cold. Thou art, to
sum thee up at once, an Olio of Perfections; or, in other Words, a
Garden of Bliss, which my Soul delights to walk in—Oh! I will take
such Strides about thy Form—such vast, such mighty Strides.
Sweet.
Oh! Robin, it is impossible to tell you how much I love as
it is—to tell—how much Water there is in the Sea.
Rob.
My dear Sweetissa, had I the Learning of the Author of
that Opera Book in the Parlour Window, I could not make a Simile to my
Love.
Sweet.
Be assur'd there shall be no Love lost between us.
Sweet.
Or to fathom the Depth of a Woman's Conscience, than to tell thee
mine.
Rob.
Mine is as deep as the Knowledge of Physicians.
Sweet.
Mine as the Projects of Statesmen.
Rob.
Mine as the Virtue of Whores.
Sweet.
Mine as the Honesty of Lawyers.
Rob.
Mine as the Generosity of an Usurer.
Sweet.
Mine as the Piety of Priests.
Rob.
Mine is as—as—as—I know not what.
Sweetissa, Margery.
Sweet.
Oh! my Margery, if this Fit of Love continues, how happy
shall I be—
Marg.
I would not have you build to much on the fine Promises which Men
make before-hand— for as a certain old Author says—Men are frail.
Sweet.
Very true, but as the Poet says, There is difference in Men.
Marg.
Still another Poet says, There are Nine bad ones to One good one.
Sweet.
Granting even that—Why may not mine be that Tythe Sheep. In a
Lottery, where there are Nine Blanks to a Prize, every one expects
that Prize for their own Ticket.
Marg.
Love is indeed like a Lottery, because it draws us into an almost
certain Loss, by the Alurements of uncertain Gain; but then it is not
like a Lottery, because in every other Circumstance it is unlike one.
Sweet.
I take Love to be rather like a Mess of Pease-Porridge, where
tho' there are some bad Pease, there are more good ones; but then it
is unlike a Mess of Pease-Porridge, because there is this Difference
between a Man and a Pea, you may know a Pea by its Outside, you can't
a Man.
Marg.
Love is like an Olio.
Sweet.
Rather a Dish of South Meagre.
Marg.
Not very unlike Potatoes.
Sweet.
How?
Marg.
Because People live mostly upon it in a Cottage.
Sweet.
In short it is like every thing.
Marg.
And like nothing at all.
AIR XI. (Ye Nymphs and Silvan Gods.) Sweet.
How odd a thing is Love,
Which the Poets fain would prove
To be this and that,
And the Lord knows what,
Like all Things below and above;
But believe a Maid,
Skill'd enough in the Trade,
Its Misery to explain;
'Tis a gentle Dart,
That tickles the Heart;
And tho' it gives Smart,
Does Joys impart;
Which largely requites all the Pain. Marg.
Oh! my Dear, whilst you have been singing, see what I have
discover'd—A Letter dropt out of Robin's Pocket.
Sweet.
It is a Woman's Hand, and not my own—[reads it] O! my
Margery, now am I undone; indeed, Robin has writ he lain
with me, and left our Susan.
Marg.
How!
Sweet.
This Letter comes from her, to upbraid him with it.
Sweet.
True, true, Margery; when once a Woman is married, 'tis
two late to discover Faults.
AIR XII. (Red-House.)
Ye Virgins who would marry,
E'er you chuse be wary,
And if you'll not miscarry,
Be still inclin'd to doubting.
Examine well your Lover,
His Vices to discover;
With Caution con him over,
And turn quite Inside out him:
But Wedding past,
The Stocking cast
The Guests all gone,
The Curtain drawn;
Be henceforth blind,
Be very blind,
And find no Faults about him. Sweet.
Oh! Margery, I am resolved never to see Robin more.
Marg.
Keep that Resolution, and you will be happy.
Robin.
Rob.
How truly does the Book say, Hours to Men in Love are Years; Oh!
for a Shower of Rain, to send the Parson home from Coursing before
the Canonical Hours are over—Ha! What Paper is this—the Hand of
our William on the Superscription—To Mrs. Sweetissa,
Madam—Hoping that you are not quite de- t, e, r, ter Deter— m, i,
i, n, e, d, to marry our Robin, this comes for to let you
know—I'll read no more; can there be such Falshood in Mankind—I
find Footmen are as great Rogues as their Masters, and henceforth
I'll look for no more Honesty under a Livery than an embroider'd
Coat—but let me see again— To let you know I'm ready to fulfil my
Promise to you—Ha! she too is guilty: Chambermaids are as bad as
their Ladies, and the whole World is one Nest of Rogues.
AIR XIII. (Black-Joke.)
The more we know of Human Kind,
The more Deceits and Tricks we find,
In every Land as well as Wales;
For would you see no Roguery thrive,
Upon the Mountains you must live;
For Rogues abound in all the Vales,
The Master and the Man will nick,
The Mistress and the Maid will trick;
For Rich and Poor,
Are Rogue and Whore,
There's not one honest Man in a Score,
Nor Woman true in Twenty four.
Robin, John.
Rob.
Oh! John, thou best of Friends, come to my Arms; for thy
Sake I will believe there is still one honest, one honest Man in the
World—
John.
What means our Robin.
Rob.
Oh! my Friend Sweetissa's false—and I'm undone—Let
this Letter explain the rest.
John.
Ha! and is William at the Bottom of all— our William
, who us'd to rail against Women and Matrimony; Oh! 'tis too true what
our Parson says—there is no Belief in Man.
Rob.
Nor Women neither—John—art thou my Friend.
John.
When did Robin ask me what I have not done; have I not
left my Horses undress'd to whet thy Knives? Have I not left my Stable
unclean'd to clean thy Spoons, and even the Bey Stone-Horse unwater'd
to wash thy Glasses.
Rob.
Then thou shalt carry a Challenge for me to William.
John.
Oh! Robin, consider what our Parson says—we must not
revenge, but forget and forgive.
Rob.
Let our Parson say what he will—when did he himself forgive,
did he forgive Gaffer Jobson's having wrong'd him of two Cocks
of Hay in five Load—Did he forgive Gammer Sow Grunt for
having rob'd him of a Tythe Pig—Did he forgive Susan Foulmouth
, for telling him he lov'd the Cellar better than his
Pulpit—no—no—let him preach up Forgiveness, he forgives no Body.
So I will follow his Example, not his Precepts; had he hit me a slap
in the Face I could have put it up—Had he stole a Silver Spoon, and
laid the Blame on me, tho' I had been turn'd away for it, I would have
forgiven him; but to try to rob me of my Love—that, that, our
John, I never will forgive him.
AIR XIV. (Tipling John.)
The Dog his Bitt
Will often quit,
A Battle to eschew;
The Cock his Corn
Will leave in Barn,
Another Cock in View:
One Man will eat
Anothers Meat,
And no Contention seen,
For all agree
'Tis good to be,
Tho' Hungry, in a whole Skin:
But should each spy
His Mistress by,
A Rival move his Suit;
He quits all Fears,
And by the Ears
They fall together to't.
A Rival shocks
Men, Dogs, and Cocks,
And makes the gentlest froward;
He who wont fight
For Mistress bright,
Is something worse than Coward. John.
Nay, to say the Truth, thou hast Reason on thy Side—Fare thee
well—I'll go, deliver thy Message; and thou shalt find I will behave
as becomes a Welshman, and thy Friend.
Robin.
Rob.
Now, were it not for the Sin of Self-murder, would I go hang my
self at the next Tree—Yes, Sweetissa, I would hang my self
and haunt thee—Oh! Woman, Woman, is this the Return you make true
Love, no Man is sure of his Mistress till he has gotten her with
Child. A Lover should act like a Boy at School, who shits in his
Porridge that no one may take it from him— should William
have been before-hand with me—. Oh!
Robin, Sweetissa.
Sweet.
Oh! the Perjury of Men, I find Dreams do not always go by
Contraries; for I dream'd last Night that I saw our Robin
married to another— Ha! he's here.
Rob.
No, no, your Heart is like a green Stick, you may bend it—but
can't break it; it will bend like a Willow, and twist round any one.
Sweet.
Monster! Monster!
Rob.
Better Language would shew better Breeding.
AIR XV. (Hedge Lane.) [Rob.]
Indeed my Dear,
With Sigh and Tear,
Your Point you will not carry;
I'd rather eat,
The Offal Meat,
Then other's Leavings marry, Sweet.
Villain! well,
You would conceal,
Your Falshood by such Fetches;
Alas too true,
I've been to you,
Thou very Wretch of Wretches.
Will you know
What I might do,
Would I but with young Master. Rob.
Pray be still,
Since by our Will,
You're now with Child of Bastard. Sweet.
I with Child? Rob.
Yes, you with Child? Sweet.
I with Child, you Villain? Rob.
Yes, you Madam, you
Are now with Child by William. [Rob.]
It is equal to me, Madam, with whom you play your Pranks, and I'd
as live be my Master's Cuckold as my Fellow Servants—nay, I had
rather —for I could make him pay for it.
Sweet.
Oh! most inhuman, dost thou not expect the Ceiling to fall down
on thy Head for so notorious a Lie? dost thou believe in the Bible?
dost thou believe there is such a thing as the Devil? dost thou
believe there is such a Place as Hell?
Rob.
Yes, I do, Madam, and you'll find there's such a Place to your
Cost. Oh! Sweetissa—Sweetissa, that a Woman could hear
herself ask'd in Church to one Man, when she knews she has had to do
with another.
Sweet.
I had to do with another?
Rob.
You, Madam, you.
Sweet.
I had to do with Will.
Rob.
Yes, you had to do with Will.
AIR XVI. (Lord Biron's Maggot.
Sure naught so disast'rous can Woman befal.
As to be a good Virgin and Thought none at all.
Had William but pleas'd me
It never had Teaz'd me
To hear a forsaken Man Bawl:
But from you this Abuse.
For whose Sake and whose Use,
I have safe cork'd my Maiden-head up;
How must it shock my Ear,
For what Woman can bear
To be call'd a vile Drunkard,
And told of the Tankard
Before she had swallow'd a Cup. Rob.
Oh! Sweetissa, Sweetissa, well, thou knowest, that wert
thou true, I'd not have sold thee for Five Hundred Pounds. But why do
I argue longer with a perfidious Woman, who is not only false, but
triumphs in her Falsehood—Oh! Sweetissa, Sweetissa,
the very Andirons thou didst rub, before thou wert prefer'd to wait on
thy Lady, have not more Brass in them than thy Forehead.
Sweet.
Oh Robin, Robin, the great Silver Candlesticks in thy
Custody are not more Hollow than thou are—
Rob.
Oh! Sweetissa—the Paint, nay, the Eyebrows that thou
puttest upon thy Mistress, are not more false than thou.
Sweet.
Thou hast as many Mistresses as there are Glasses on thy
Side-board.
Rob.
And thou Lovers as thy Mistress has Patches.
Sweet.
If I have, you will have but a small Chance.
Rob.
The better my Fortune, to loose a Wife when you have had her, is
to get out of Misfortune; to loose one before you get her is to
escape it, especially if it be a Wife that some Body has had before
you. He that marries a Woman pays the Price of Virtue; a Whore may be
had cheaper.
Sweetissa, Margery.
Sweet.
Ungrateful barbarous Wretch.
Marg.
What is the Matter.
Sweet.
Oh! Margery—Robin.
Marg.
What, more of him—
Sweet.
Oh! worse than you can imagine, worse than I could have
dreaded—Oh! he has sullied my Virtue.
Marg.
How—Your Virtue.
Marg.
It is a melancholly Thing indeed.
Sweet.
Oh Margery, Men do not sufficiently know the Value of
Virtue.—Even Footmen learn to go a Whoring of their Masters, and
Virtue will shortly be of no Use but to stop Bottles.
AIR XVIII. (Twede Side.)
[Act ready.]
What Woman her Virtue will keep,
When nought by her Virtue she Gains,
While she lulls her soft Passions asleep,
She's thought but a Fool for her Pains.
Since Valets who learn their Lords Wit,
Our Virtue a Bawble can Call,
Why should we our Ladies Steps quit,
Or have any Virtue at all.
(Exit.
A Field.
Rob.
The sooner the better.
John.
Come Thomas, thou and I will not be idle.
Tho.
I'll take a Knock or two for Love with all my Heart.
Susan.
Why, what's the Matter?
Rob.
He wanted to get my Mistress from me, that's all.
Will.
You Lie, Sirrah, you Lie.
Rob.
Who do you call Liar, you Blockhead—I say—you Lie.
Will.
And I say you Lie.
Rob.
The Devil take the greater Liar, I say.
AIR XX. (Mother quoth Hodge.)
Oh! Fie upon't, Robin—Oh! fie upon't Will;
With Language like this, when Scullian defames,
'Twere better your Tongues should ever lye still,
Than always be scolding, and calling ill Names. Will.
'Twas he that Lies
Did first devise;
The first Words were his, and the last shall be mine. Rob.
You kiss my—Dog. Will.
You are a sly Dog. Rob.
Bufflehead.
Will.
Loggerhead.
Rob.
Blockhead.
Will.
Fool.
Rob.
Swine.
Will.
Fox.
Sirrah, I'll make you repent you ever quarrel'd with me; I will tell my Master of two Silver Spoons you stole—I'll discover your Tricks— Your selling Glasses, and pretending that the Frost broke them. Making your Master brew more Beer than he needed, and then giving it away to your own Family—especially to feed that great swollen Belly of that pot-gutted Brother of your's—who gets drunk twice a Day at Master's Expence—
Rob.
Ha—ha—ha—And is this all?
Will.
No, Sirrah! it is not all—then there's your filing the Plate,
and when it was found lighter, pretending that it wasted in
Cleaning— And your Bills for Tutty and rotten Stone, when you us'd
nothing but poor Whiting—Sirrah, you have been such a Rogue, that
you have stole above half my Masters Plate, and spoil'd therest.
Sus.
Fie upon't William, what have we to do with Master's
Losses, he is rich and can afford it —Don't let us Quarrel among our
Selves.— Let us stand by one another; for let me tell you if
Matters were to be too nicely examin'd into. I am afraid it would go
hard with us all.—Wise Servants always stick close to one another,
as Plumbs in a Pudding that's over wetted, says Susan the Cook.
John.
Or Horse in a Stable that's on Fire, says John the Groom.
Tho.
Or Grapes upon a Wall—says Thomas the Gardiner.
Sus.
Every Servant should be Sauce to his Fellow Servant, as Sauce
Disguises the Faults of a Dish, so should he theirs.—Oh William
, were we all to have our Desarts—we should be finely roasted
indeed.
Rob.
Was it not enough to try to supplant me in my Place, but you must
try to get my Mistress.
AIR XXIII. (Hark, Hark, the Cock Crows. Will.
[1.]
When Masters think fit,
I am ready to quit,
A Place I so little regard, Sir,
For while thou art here,
No Merit must e're,
Expect to find any Reward, Sir.
(2.)
The Groom who is able,
To manage his Stable.
Of Places enough need not doubt, Sir,
But you my good Brother,
Will scarce find another.
If Master should e're turn you out, Sir.
Sweet.
Your Capacity is to capacious—Madam.
Sus.
Your Method of talking,—Madam is something dark.
Sweet.
Your Method of acting is darker.— Madam.
Sus.
I dare Appeal to the whole World, for the Justification of my
Actions, Madam.—And I defy any one to say my Fame is more sullied
than my Plates.—Madam.
Sweet.
Your Pots you mean Madam, if you are like any Plates, it is Soop
Plates which any Man may put his Spoon into.
Sus.
Me, Madam?
Sweet.
You, Madam.
AIR XXV. (Dainty Davy.) Sus.
What the Devil mean you thus,
Scandal scattering,
Me be spattering.
Dirty Slut, and ugly Puss.
What can be your Meaning. Sweet.
Had you, Madam, not forgot,
When with Bob, you, you—know what,
Surely, Madam, you would not.
Twice enquire my Meaning. [Sweet.]
There read that Letter, and be satisfied how base you have been
to a Woman to whom you have profess'd a Friendship.
To them Goody Scratch.
Scratch.
Oh save me, save me, save me.
John.
Save you, from what?
Scr.
Oh from the Greyhound, from the Greyhounds, they take me for a
Hare, and will devour me.
John.
If they take you for a Witch, I believe they take you Right.
Tho.
Look if she be quite chang'd out of the Hare's Form yet.—She
has got the Ears, and the Scent still.
John.
The Greyhounds are gone down on the other Side of the
Hedge.—Goody Scratch.—You have been taken for a Witch a
long Time, and now I think you are sufficiently prov'd one.
Tho.
You shall be hang'd you Jade.
To them Puzzletext (out of Breath.)
Puz.
Did you see the Hare.—
Tho.
We have gotten the Hare safe enough—this is the Hare.
Scr.
Oh spare my Life, and I'll confess it all.— I am a Witch
indeed, I am,—and I was the Hare that you cours'd.
Tho.
See Master—here are her Ears and her Scut which I caught hold
of before she had changed her self from a Hare to a Woman again.
Puz.
Oh Goody Scratch.—Goody Scratch, I am sorry to
find my Sermons have no better Effect; but the true Reason is, because
you have seldom come to hear them.
AIR XXVI. (A Soldier and a Sailor,)
In vain the Parson Preaches,
Of Devils, Ghosts, and Witches.
While by each Unbeliever,
He's thought a mere Deceiver.
Or Triffler at the best.
But sure the Man who Spys, Sir,
A Witch with both his Eyes, Sir.
With Ears and Scut of Hare, Sir,
And looks enough to scare, Sir.
Must think a Witch no Jest.
Tho' to say the Truth, I never believ'd one Word of Witches my self till this Moment.
Sus.
I see the Reason now that my Pot would not boil sometimes, tho' I
blow'd my Eyes out.
Puz.
Oh Goody Scratch, how Sorry am I, that any of my Flock
should come to be hang'd.
Scr.
For God-sake, dear Sir; do take Pity on me.
Puz.
I will do all I can for thee, I will give the Spiritual Advice,
and when thou art hang'd, I will for so low a Price as Ten Groats
preach thy Funeral Sermon,—wherein I will say of thee as many good
Things as if thou hadst dy'd a Martyr.
Scr.
Alack,—Alack,—what comfort will your preaching be to me, when
I shall not be able to hear it.—But if you will be Secret, and
preach nothing of this my Misfortune.—I will discover a Secret that
shall make you all Rich and Happy.
Omnes.
Ay! Let's hear that.
Scr.
In the first Place you are all People of Quality and great
Fortunes—You Ladies are all Daughters of my Lord Truelove
—and you Gentlemen are all Sons of Sir Geo. Wealthy.
Omnes.
How.—
Scr.
On your Right Arms Ladies, you will find a Star, which was the
particular Mark of Lord Truelove's Children.
Omnes.
How?—
Puz.
A Star—that was indeed the Mark by which they all were known, I
do remember to have my self seen that Mark when I christen'd 'em, as
being at that Time Chaplain to my Lord.
Omnes.
How?—
Omnes.
How!
Puzzle.
I do remember likewise to have heard a Brother-Clergyman, who was
at that Time Chaplain to Sir George, to have spoken hereof.
Women.
We have all the Marks upon our Arms.
Men.
And we behind our Ears.
Scratch.
How you came here, I shall tell some other Time.—Let it suffice
now, that you Ladies are worth Nineteen Thousand Three Hundred and
Fifty five Pounds a-piece; and you Mr. Robin have an Estate of
Three Thousand a Year left you by your Father.— You Mr. John
have the same from an Uncle. You Mr. Thomas from another
Uncle. And you Mr. William from a third Uncle.
Omnes.
How!
Scratch.
There remains one Thing to be set to rights, which is concerning
those Letters, both which were written in my Master's Frolick, in
order to occasion a Quarrel betwixt you.
Omnes.
How!
Scratch.
What I have said is true, as I'm a Witch.
Rob.
Oh, Sweetissa! can you pardon me?
Sweet.
Heaven knows how willingly.— Susan, what say you? shall
you and I make a second Couple.
Tho.
What say'st thou Margery?
Marg.
I say, Yes.
John.
And you, Mrs. Betty.
Betty.
I don't say no.
Puzzle.
Let us then to Church, where I will marry you all, without
farther Ceremony.
Witch.
I have but one Word more, which is concerning myself; I am a
Widow of Five Hundred a Year Jointure, and must marry a Parson to
dissolve the Spell.
Puzzle.
Then I have only one Word to say for myself, which is—that I
may be that Parson.
Scratch.
Agreed.
Puzzle.
I will send for my Neighbour Concordance, and he shall
marry us, as soon as I have tack'd the others together.
AIR XXVI. (Country Bumpkin.)
Come to Church my Lads and Lasses,
First be Wedded,
Then be Bedded,
Thank, if pleas'd with what there passes,
Parson of the Parish.
But if you repent your Flame,
And your Marriages,
Prove Miscarrages,
'Twill avail you nought to blame
The Parson of the Parish.
Chorus.
Who ties the Wedding Noose,
'Tis the Parson,
'Tis the Parson,
Who's the Hymen for our Use,
The Parson of the Parish.
A Room.
Enter Master Owen, and Mrs. Ap-Shinken (his Wife.)
Both Children.
Your Blessing, Sir.
Both Parents.
How!
Both Child.
We are your Son and Daughter.
Ap-Sh.
My Son married to the Daughter of a Tenant!
Owen.
Oh, Sir! she is indeed your Tenant's Daughter, but worthy of a
Crown.
Owen.
T'other Song, t'other Song, ply him with Songs 'till he forgives
us.
AIR XXVIII. (Patty's Mill.) Molly.
If I too high aspire,
'Tis Love that prunes my Wing,
Love makes a Clown a 'Squire,
Would make a 'Squire a King.
What Maid that Owen 'spies
From Love can e'er be free;
Love in his lac'd Coat lies,
And peeps from his Toupet. Mr. Ap-Sh.
I can hold out no longer.
AIR XXIX. (Caro Vien.) Molly.
With Joy my Soul's o'erflowing. Owen.
With Joy my Heart's jolly. Molly.
Oh my dearest sweet Owen. Owen.
Oh my dearest Molly.
Omnes.
Mrs. Ap-Sh.Puzzle.
As I tell you I assure you.
Owen.
If you please we will begin our Hospitality with a Dance, for
which the Fiddles I have provided for my own Wedding will be very
opportune.