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SIR,
Tho' Pasquin has put Dedications in so ridiculous a Light, that Patrons may, perhaps, pay some Shame for the future for reading their own Praises; yet, I hope you will not begin to be affected with so troublesome a Passion, when I tell you, I know no Man in England to whom I can so properly dedicate the following Pages as yourself.
It is to You, Sir, we owe (if not the Invention) at least the bringing into a Fashion, that sort of Writing which you have pleased to distinguish by the Name of Entertainment. Your Success herein (whether owing to your Heels or your Head, I will not determine) sufficiently entitles you to all Respect from the inferior Dablers in Things of this Nature.
But, Sir, I have farther Obligations to you than the Success, whatever it be, which this little Farce may meet with, can lay on me. It was to a Play judiciously brought on by you in the May-Month, to which I owe the Original Hint, as I have always own'd, of the contrasted Poets, and two or three other Particulars, which have received great Applause on the Stage. Nor am I less obliged to you for discovering in my imperfect Performance the Strokes of an Author, any of whose Wit, if I have preserved entire, I shall think it my chief Merit to the Town. Tho' I cannot enough cure myself of Selfishness, while I meddle in Dramatick Writings, to profess a Sorrow that One of so superior a Genius is led, by his better Sense and better Fortune, to more profitable Studies than the Stage. How far you have contributed to this, I will not presume to determine. Farther, as Pasquin has proved of greater Advantage to me, than it could have been at any other Play-House, under their present Regulations, I am oblig'd to you for the Indifference you shew'd at my Proposal to you of bringing a Play on your Stage this Winter, which immediately determin'd me against any further pursuing that Project; for as I never yet yielded to any mean or subservient Solicitations of the Great Men in real Life, I could by no means prevail on myself to play an Under-part in that Dramatick Entertainment of Greatness, which you are pleased to divert yourself with in Private, and which, was you to exhibit it in Publick, might prove as profitable to you, and as diverting a Pantomime to the Town, as any you have hitherto favour'd us with.
I am, moreover, much oblig'd to you for that Satire on Pasquin , which you was so kind to bring on your Stage; and here I declare (whatever People may think to the contrary) you did it of your own mere Goodness, without any Reward or Solicitation from me. I own it was a sensible Pleasure to me to observe the Town, which had before been so favourable to Pasquin at his own House, confirming that Applause, by thoroughly condemning the Satire on him at Yours.
Whether this was written by your Command, or your Assistance, or only Acted by your Permission, I will not venture to decide. I believe every impartial honest Man will conclude, that either lays me under the same Obligation to you, and justly intitles you to this Dedication. Indeed I am inclin'd to believe the latter; for I fansy you have too strong a Head ever to meddle with Common-Sense, especially since you have found the way so well to succeed without her, and you are too great and good a Manager, to keep a needless Supernumerary in your House.
I suppose you will here expect something in the Dedicatory Style on your Person and your Accomplishments: But why should I entertain the Town with a Recital of your particular Perfections, when they may see your whole Merit all at once, whenever you condescend to perform the Harlequin? However, I shall beg Leave to mention here (I solemnly protest, without the least Design of Flattery) your adequate Behaviour in that great Station to which you was born, your great Judgment in Plays and Players, too well known to be here expatiated on; your Generosity, in diverting the whole Kingdom with your Race-Horses at the Expence, I might almost say, of more than your Purse. To say nothing of your Wit, and other Perfections, I must force myself to add, tho' I know every Man will be pleas'd with it but yourself, That the Person who has the Honour to know your very inmost Thoughts best, is the most sensible of your great Endowments.
But, Sir, while I am pleasing myself, and I believe the World, I am, I fear, offending you; I will therefore desist, tho' I can affirm, what few Dedicators can, that I can, and perhaps may, say much more; and only assure you that I am, with the Sincerity of most of the foregoing Lines,
Your most Obedient, And most humble Servant, PASQUIN.
Phaeton was the Son of Phoebus, and Clymene a Grecian Oyster-Wench. The Parish-Boys would often upbraid him with the Infamy of his Mother Clymene, telling him, she reported him to be Son of Apollo, only to cover her Adultery with a Serjeant of the Foot-Guards. He complains to Clymene of the Affront put upon them both. She advises him to go to the Round-House (the Temple of his Father) and there be resolved from his own Mouth of the Truth of his Sire; bidding him at the same time beg some indubitable Mark, that should convince the World that his Mother was a virtuous Woman, and Whore to Phoebus. He goes to the said Round-House, where Apollo grants his Request, and gives him the Guidance of his Lanthorn for a Day. The Youth falling asleep, was tumbled out of the Wheelbarrow, and what became of him I could never learn.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Machine, the Composer,
Prompter, Fustian, Sneerwell, and Machine.
Mr. Fustian, I hope the Tragedy is over, for Mr. Machine is just come, and we must practise the Entertainment.
Fust.
Sir, my Tragedy is done; but you need not be in such Haste about
your Entertainment, for you will not want it this Season.
Promp.
That, Sir, I don't know; but we dare not disoblige Mr. Machine
, for fear he shou'd go to the other House.
Sneer.
Dr. Fustian, do let us stay and see the Practice.
Fust.
And can you bear, after such a luscious Meal of Tragedy as you
have had, to put away the Taste with such an insipid Desert?
Sneer.
It will divert me a different way.—I can admire the Sublime
which I have seen in the Tragedy,
and laugh at the Ridiculous which I expect in the Entertainment.
Fust
You shall laugh by yourself then.
Fust.
Sir, I can deny you nothing.—Ay, I have a few Tickets in my
Pockets.
Fust.
Things of a serious Nature! Oh the Devil!
Mach.
Harkye, Prompter, who is that Figure there?
Promp.
That, Sir, is Mr. Fustian, Author of the New Tragedy.
Mach.
Oh! I smoke him, I smoke him. But, Mr. Prompter, I must insist
that you cut out a great deal of Othello, if my Pantomime is
perform'd with it, or the Audience will be pall'd before the
Entertainment begins.
Promp.
We'll cut out the Fifth Act, Sir, if you please.
Mach.
Sir, that's not enough, I'll have the First cut out too.
Fust.
Death and the Devil! Can I bear this? Shall Shakespear be
mangled to introduce this Trumpery?
Promp.
Sir, this Gentleman brings more Money to the House, than all the
Poets put together.
Mach.
Pugh, pugh, Shakespear!—Come, let down the Curtain, and
play away the Overture.— Prompter, to your Post.
Enter Clymene.
Sneer.
Pray, Sir, who are these extraordinary Figures?
Mach.
He, leaning against the Scene, is Phaeton; and the Lady is
Clymene; or Clymene, as they call her in Drury-Lane.
This Scene, Sir, is in the true Altercative, or Scolding Style of the
Ancients. Come, Madam, begin.
Clym.
You lazy, lousy Rascal, is't well done,
That you, the Heir apparent of the Sun,
Stand with your Arms before you, like a Lour,
When your great Father has two Hours set out,
And bears his Lanthorn all the World about? Phae.
Oh Mother, Mother! think you it sounds well,
That the Sun's Son in Cobler's Stall shou'd dwell?
Think you it does not on my Soul encroach,
To walk on Foot while Father keeps a Coach?
If he shou'd shine into the Stall, d'ye think,
To see me mending Shoes, he wou'd not wink?
Besides, by all the Parish Boys I'm slamm'd,
You the Sun's Son! You Rascal, you be damn'd! Clym.
And dost thou, Blockhead, then make all this Noise,
Because you're sleer'd at by the Parish-Boys?
When, Sirrah, you may know the Mob will dare
Sometimes to scorn, and hiss at my Lord-Mayor.
AIR I.
Gilliflower gentle Rosemary.
Phae.
O Mother, this Story will never go down,
'Twill ne'er be believ'd by the Boys of the Town;
'Tis true what you swore,
I'm the Son of a Whore,
They all believe That, but believe nothing more.
Cly.
You Rascal, who dare your Mama thus to doubt,
Come along to the Justice, and he'll make it out;
He knows very well,
When you first made me swell,
That I swore 'twas the Sun that had shin'd in my Cell. Phae.
O Mother, Mother, I must ever grieve;
Can I the Justice, if not you, believe?
If to your Oath no Credit I afford,
Do you believe I'll take his Worship's Word? Cly.
Go to the Watch-house, where your Father bright
That Lanthorn keeps which gives the World its Light;
Whence sallying, he does the Day's Gates unlock,
Walks thro' the World's great Streets, and tells Folks what's o'
Clock. Phae.
With Joy I go; and ere two Days are run,
I'll know if I am my own Father's Son.
[Exit.
Cly.
Go, clear my Fame, for greater 'tis in Life
To be a great Man's Whore, than poor Man's Wife.
If you are rich, your Vices Men adore,
But hate and scorn your Virtues, if you're poor.
AIR. II.
Pierrot Tune.
Great Courtiers Palaces contain,
Poor Courtiers fear a Goal;
Great Parsons riot in Champaign,
Poor Parsons sot in Ale;
Great Whores in Coaches gang,
Smaller Misses,
For their Kisses,
Are in Bridewell hang'd;
Whilst in vogue
Lives the great Rogue,
Small Rogues are by Dozens hang'd.
[Exit.
[The Scene draws, and
discovers the Sun in a great Ch
AIR in the Round-house, attended by
Watchmen.
Enter Phaeton.
Sneer.
Pray, Sir, what is this Scene to represent? Mach.
Sir, this is the Palace of the Sun. Fust.
It looks as like the Round-house as ever I saw any thing.
Mach.
Yes, Sir, the Sun is introduced in the Character of a Watchman;
and that Lanthorn there represents his Chariot.
Fust.
The Devil it does!
Mach.
Yes Sir, it does, and as like the Chariot of the Sun it is, as
ever you saw any thing on any Stage.
Fust.
I can't help thinking this a properer Representation of the Moon,
than the Sun.
Sneer.
Perhaps the Scene lies in the Antipodes, where the Sun rises at
Midnight.
Mach.
Sir, the Scene lies in Ovid's Metamorphoses; and so, pray
Sir, don't ask any more Questions, for things of this Nature are above
Criticism.
Pha.
What do I see? What Beams of Candlelight
Break from that Lanthorn, and put out my Sight? Phoeb.
O little Phaey! pr'ythee tell me why
Thou tak'st this Ev'ning's Walk into the Sky? Phæ.
Father, if I may call thee by that Name,
I come to clear my own and Mother's Fame;
To prove myself thy Bastard, her thy Miss. Phoeb.
Come hither first, and give me, Boy, a Kiss.
[Kisses him.
Now you shall see a Dance, and that will show,
We lead as merry Lives as Folks below.
[A Dance of Watchmen.
Phae.
Father, the Dance has very well been done, But yet that does not
prove I am your Son.
Fust.
Upon my Word, I think Mr. Phaeton is very much in the
right on't; and I wou'd be glad to know, Sir, why this Dance was
introduc'd.
Mach.
Why, Sir? why as all Dances are introduc'd, for the sake of the
Dance. Besides, Sir, wou'd it not
look very unnatural in Phoebus to give his Son no
Entertainment after so long an Absence? Go on, go on.
Phoeb.
Thou art so like me, sure thou must be mine;
I shou'd be glad if you wou'd stay and Dine;
I'll give my Bond, whate'er you ask, to grant;
I will, by Styx! an Oath which break I can't. Phae.
Then let me, since that Vow must ne'er be broke,
Carry, one Day, that Lanthorn for a Joke. Phoeb.
Rash was my Promise, which I now must keep;
But Oh! take care you do not fall asleep. Phae.
If I succeed, I shall no Scandal rue;
If I shou'd sleep, 'tis what most Watchmen do.
[Exit Phaeton.
Phoeb.
No more.—Set out, and walk around the Skies;
My Watch informs me it is Time to rise.
[Exit.
Mach.
Now for the Comic, Sir. Fust.
Why, what the Devil has this been? Mach.
This has been the Serious, Sir.—the Sublime. The Serious in an
Entertainment, answers to the Sublime in Writing. Come, are all the
Rakes and Whores ready at King's Coffee-House?
Promp.
They are ready, Sir.
Mach.
Then draw the Scene. Pray, let the Carpenters take care that all
the Scenes be drawn in exact Time and Tune, that I may have no
Bungling in the Tricks; for a Trick is no Trick, if not perform'd with
great Dexterity. Mr. Fustian, in Tragedies and Comedies, and
such sort of things, the Audiences will make great Allowances; but
they expect more from an Entertainment; here, if the least thing be
out of Order, they never pass it by.
Fust.
Very true, Sir, Tragedies do not depend so much upon the
Carpenter as you do.
Mach.
Come, draw the Scene.
Mach.
How, Sir? why by Bribery. You know, Sir, or may know, that
Aristotle, in his Book concerning Entertainments, has laid it down
as a principal Rule, that Harlequin is always to escape; and
I'll be judg'd by the whole World, if ever he escap'd in a more
natural Manner.
Mach.
Sir, Sir, here's no Error, I observe; for how shou'd the Justice
know that, when he can't read?
Sneer.
Ay, there I think, Mr. Fustian, you must own yourself in
the wrong.
Fust.
People that can't read, ought not to be brought upon the Stage,
that's all.
Mach.
Because it was no Jar, Sir; I see you know very little of these
Aff
AIRs.
Fust.
The Transformation is odd enough, indeed.
Mach.
Odd, Sir! What, the Justice into a Block? No, Sir, not odd at
all; there never was a more natural and easy Transformation; but don't
interrupt us. Go on, go on.
Aur.
The Devil take the Wench, is't not a Shame
You shou'd be lazy, and I bear the Blame?
Make haste, you Drone, for if I longer stay,
The Sun will rise before the Break of Day;
Nor can I go till my clean Linnen's done:
How will a dirty Morning look in June? Maid.
Shifts, Madam, can't be dry'd before they're wet;
You must wear fewer, or more Changes get. Fust.
Pray Sir, in what Book of the Ancients do you find any mention of
Aurora's Washer-woman?
Mach.
Don't trouble me with the Ancients, Sir; if she's not in the
Ancients, I have improv'd upon the Ancients, Sir, that's all.
Aur.
Dare you to me in such a Manner speak?
The Morning is scarce fine three times a Week;
But I can't stay, and as I am must break.
[Exit.
Maid.
Break, and be hang'd; please Heav'n I'll give you Warning,
Night wants a Maid, and so I'll leave the Morning.
[Exit.
SCENE changes to an Open Country.
Enter two Countrymen.
1 Country.
Is it Day yet, Neighbour?
2 Country.
Faith, Neighbour, I can't tell whether it is or no. It is a
cursed nasty Morning; I wish we have not wet Weather.
1 Country.
It begins to grow a little lighter tho', now.
Mach.
Sir, those Children are all Stars; and you shall see presently,
as the Sun rises the Candles will go out, which represents the
disappearing of the Stars.
Fust.
O the Devil! the Devil!
Mach.
Dear Sir, don't be angry. Why will you not allow me the same
Latitude that is allow'd to all other Composers of Entertainments?
Does not a Dragon
descend from Hell in Doctor Faustus? And People go up to
Hell in Pluto and Proserpine? Does not a Squib represent a
Thunderbolt in the Rape of Proserpine? And what are all the
Suns, Sir, that have ever shone upon the Stage, but Candles? And if
they represent the Sun, I think they may very well represent the
Stars.
Fust.
Sir, I ask your Pardon. But, Sir—
Mach.
Pray Sir, be quiet, or the Candles will be gone out before they
shou'd, and burn the Girls Fingers before the Sun can rise.
1 Country.
I'll e'en go saddle my Horses.
2 Country.
Odso! methinks 'tis woundy light all of a sudden; the Sun rises
devilish fast to-day, methinks.
1 Country.
Mayhap he's going a Fox-Hunting today, but he takes devilish
large Leaps.
2 Country.
Leaps, quotha! I'cod he'll leap upon us, I believe. Its woundy
hot, the Skin is almost burnt off my Face; I warrant I'm as black as a
Blackmoor.
Enter 3d Countryman.
3 Country.
Oh Neighbours! the World is at an End; call up the Parson of
the Parish; I am but just got up from my Neighbour's Wife, and have
not had time to say my Prayers since.
1 Country.
The World at an End! No, no, if this hot Weather continues we
shall have Harvest in May. Odso, tho', 'tis damn'd hot! I'cod,
I wish I had left my Cloaths at home.
2 Country.
S'bud I sweat as if I had been at a hard Day's Work.
1 Country.
Oh, I'm scorch'd!
2 Country.
Oh, I'm burnt!
3 Country.
I'm on Fire!
Neptune descends.
Nept.
I am the mighty Emperor of the Sea.
Mach.
Sir, he has been making a Visit to Jupiter. Beside, Sir,
it is here introduced with great Beauty; for we may very naturally
suppose, that the Sun being drove by Phaeton so near the Earth,
had exhal'd all the Sea up into the
AIR.
Fust.
But methinks Neptune is odly dress'd for a God?
Mach.
Sir, I must dress my Characters somewhat like what People have
seen; and as I presume few of my Audience have been nearer the Sea
than Gravesend, so I dress'd him e'en like a Waterman.
Sneer.
So that he is more properly the God of the Thames, than
the God of the Sea.
Mach.
Pray let Mr. Neptune go on. Nept.
Was it well done, Oh Jupiter! whilst I
Paid you a civil Visit in the Sky,
To send your Sun my Waters to dry up,
Nor leave my Fish one comfortable Sup? Mach.
Come, Enter the Goddess of the Earth, and a Dancing-Master, and
dance the White Joke.
They Enter, and Dance.
Nept.
What, can the Earth with Frolicks thus inspire
To Dance, when all her Kingdom is on fire? Terra.
Tho' all the Earth was one continual Smoke,
'Twou'd not prevent my Dancing the White Joke. Sneer.
Upon my Word, the Goddess is a great Lover of Dancing.
Mach.
Come, Enter Jupiter with a p
AIR of Bellows, and blow out
the Candle of the Sun.
Jupiter enters, as above.
Terra.
But hah! great Jupiter has heard our Rout, And blown the
Candle of the Sun quite out.
Fust.
But pray how is Phaeton fall'n all this time?
Mach.
Why you saw him fall, did not you? And there he lies; and I think
it's the first time I ever saw him fall upon any Stage. But I fansy he
has lain there so long, that he would be glad to get up again by this
time; so pray draw the first Flat over him. Come, Enter Clymene
.
Enter Clymene.
Cly.
Art thou, my Phaey, dead? O foolish Elf,
To find your Father, and to lose yourself.
What shall I do to get another Son,
For now, alas! my Teeming-time is done?
AIR IV.
Thus when the wretched Owl has found
Her young Owls dead as Mice,
O'er the sad Spoil she hovers round,
And views 'em once or twice:
Then to some hollow Tree she flies,
To hollow, hoot, and howl,
Till ev'ry Boy that passes, cries,
The Devil's in the Owl! Mach.
Come, Enter Old Phaeton.
Fust.
Pray, Sir, who is Old Phaeton? for neither Ovid,
nor Mr. Pritchard make any mention of him.
Mach.
Sir, he is the Husband of Clymene, and might have been the
Father of Phaeton, if his Wife would have let him.
Enter Old Phaeton.
Old Phae.
What is the Reason, Wife, thro' all the Town
You publish me a Cuckold up and down?
Is't not enough, as other Women do,
To Cuckold me, but you must tell it too?
Cly.
Good Cobler, do not thus indulge your Rage,
But, like your brighter Brethren of the Age,
Think it enough your Betters do the Deed,
And that by Horning you I mend the Breed. Old Phae.
Madam, if Horns I on my Head must wear,
'Tis equal to me who shall graft them there. Cly.
To London, go, thou out-of-fashion Fool,
And thou wilt learn in that great Cuckolds School,
That every Man who wears the Marriage-Fetters,
Is glad to be the Cuckold of his Betters;
Therefore, no longer at your Fate repine,
For in your Stall the Sun shall ever shine. Old Phae.
I had rather have burnt Candle all my Life,
Than to the Sun have yielded up my Wife.
But since 'tis past, I must my Fortune bear;
'Tis well you did not do it with a Star. Cly.
When Neighbours see the Sunshine in your Stall,
Your Fate will be the Envy of them all;
And each poor clouded Man will wish the Sun
Wou'd do to his Wife, what to your Wife h'as done.
[Exeunt Arm in Arm.
Mach.
There, Sir, is a Scene in Heroicks, between a Cobler and his
Wife; now you shall have a Scene in mere Prose between several Gods.
Fust.
I should have thought it more natural for the Gods to have
talk'd in Heroicks, and the Cobler and his Wife in Prose.
Mach.
You think it would have been more natural, so do I, and for that
very Reason have avoided it; for the chief Beauty of an Entertainment,
Sir, is to be unnatural. Come, where are the Gods?
Enter Jupiter, Neptune, and Phoebus.
Jup.
Harkye, you Phoebus, will you take up your Lanthorn, and
set out, Sir, or no? For by Styx! I'll put somebody else in
your Place, if you do not; I will
not have the World left in Darkness, because you are out of
Humour.
Phoeb.
Have I not Reason to be out of Humour, when you have destroy'd my
Favourite Child?
Jup.
'Twas your own Fault; why did you trust him with your Lanthorn?
Phoeb.
I had promis'd by Styx, an Oath which you know was not in
my Power to break.
Jup.
I shall dispute with you here no longer; so either take up your
Lanthorn, and mind your Business, or I'll dispose of it to somebody
else. I would not have you think I want Suns, for there were two vety
fine ones that shone together at Drury-Lane Play-House; I
myself saw 'em, for I was in the same Entertainment.
Phoeb.
I saw 'em too, but they were more like Moons than Suns; and as
like any thing else, as either. You had better send for the Sun from
Covent-Garden House, there's a Sun that hatches an Egg there, and
produces a Harlequin.
Jup.
Yes, I remember that; but do you know what Animal laid that Egg?
Phoeb.
Not I.
Jup.
Sir, that Egg was laid by an Ass.
Nept.
Faith, that Sun of the Egg of an Ass is a most prodigious Animal;
I have often wonder'd how you came to give him so much Power over us,
for he makes Gods and Devils dance Jigs together whenever he pleases.
Jup.
You must know, he is the Grand-child of my Daughter Fortune
, by an Ass; and at her Request I settled all that Power upon him; but
he plays such damn'd Pranks with it, that I believe I shall shortly
revoke my Grant. He has turn'd all Nature topsy-turvy, and not
content with that, in one of his Entertainments he was bringing all
the Devils in Hell up to Heaven by a Machine, but I happen'd to
perceive him, and stopt him by the way.
Phoeb.
I wonder you did not damn him for it.
Phoeb.
Well, if I must, I must; and since you have destroy'd my Son, I
must find out some handsome Wench, and get another.
Sneer.
You have brought these two Play-Houses in a very friendly manner
together.
Mach.
Why shou'd they quarrel, Sir? for you observe, both their Doors
are shut up. Come, Enter Tragedy King and Queen, to be
hired.
Mach.
Sir, in that Sack are contain'd Articles for Players, from Ten
Shillings a Week, and no Benefit, to Five Hundred a Year, and a
Benefit clear.
Fust.
Sir, I suppose you intend this as a Joke; but I can't see why a
Player of our own Country, and in our own Language, should not deserve
Five Hundred, sooner than a sawcy Italian Singer Twelve.
Mach.
Five Hundred a Year, Sir! Why, Sir, for a little more Money I'll
get you one of the best Harlequins in France; and you'll
see the Managers are of my Opinion.