MIDAS: AN English Burletta.
[Price Eighteen-pence.]
MIDAS; AN English Burletta.
As it is performed, at the THEATRE-ROYAL, IN
COVENT-GARDEN.
LONDON: Printed, for G. KEARSLY, W. GRIFFIN, J. COOTE, T. LOWNDS, and W. NICOLE.
M DCC LXIV.
To the READER.
THE Editor of the following piece thinks proper to observe, that the first idea of it was conceived, and the plan in some measure executed by a gentleman in Dublin, for the private entertainment of some persons of distinction in that kingdom, at a time, when Italian Burlettas were blended with the exhibitions of the Theatre, and almost triumphed over the best productions in our language. The public spirit of those, for whom it was originally intended, prevailed upon the author to enlarge his design. Accordingly, MIDAS adventured on the stage, and met with uncommon success for a series of nights. The Editor begs leave to add a word concerning the stile which prevails in the following scenes. They are written in the true spirit of the mock-heroic. BURLESQUE, in all times, from the stage of ATHENS down to the DRAGON OF WANTLEY, has been esteemed one of the provinces of the Drama. It's humour principally consists in making dignified personages raise in our minds trite and ordinary ideas, or else in giving to trivial objects a serious air of gravity and importance.
It would be impertinent to point out instances in either way of composition; but thus much was deemed necessary that no one should look for another sort of entertainment than was here intended. The public, with their usual candour, will consider the particular scope of this piece, and will decide nothing till they have heard the musick, to which it is adapted. Should MIDAS in the representation be found to have merit, and indeed, excellence in its kind; the generous critick will allow the author that degree of applause, which his talents seem to deserve.
Dramatis Personae.
Jupiter,
Mr.
Legg.
Juno,
Mrs.
Stephens.
Apollo,
Mr.
Mattocks.
Momus,
Mr.
Dibden.
Mercury,
Mr.
Baker.
Pan,
Mr.
Dunstall.
Mutes.
Mars,
Vulcan,
Venus,
Minerva, &c, &c.
MORTALS.
Midas,
Mr.
Shuter.
Damaetas,
Mr.
Fawcett.
Sileno,
Mr.
Beard.
Mysis,
Miss
Poitier.
Daphne,
Miss
Miller.
Nysa,
Miss
Hallam.
Oracle,
Mr.
Wayle
SCENE,
first on mount
Olympus,
afterwards on the pastures of
Lydia.
MIDAS.
ACT I.
The curtain rising discovers the Heathen Deities, seated amidst the clouds, in full council: they address Jupiter in chorus, accompanied by all the instruments.
AIR I. King of Prussia's March. Chorus of all the Gods.
JOVE, in his chair,
Of the sky Lor'd-May'r
With his nods
Men and Gods
Keeps in awe,
When he winks
Heaven shrinks,
When he speaks
Hell squeaks
Earth's globe is but his taw.
Cock of the school
He bears despotic rule,
His word
Tho' absurd
Must be law.
Even fate
Tho' so great,
Must not prate,
His bald pate
Jove would cuff,
He's so bluff,
For a straw.
Cow'd deities
Like mice, in cheese
To stir must cease,
Nor gnaw.
RECITATIVE, accompanied.
(rising.)
Immortals, you have heard your plaintive sovereign
And Culprit Sol's high crimes. Shall we who govern
Brook spies upon us? Shall Apollo trample
On our commands? we'll make him an example.
As for you, Juno, curb your prying temper, or
We'll make you to your cost, know,—we're your emperor,
Your husband—when the jealous Gad-bee twitches,
Swallow your spittle—Jove will wear the breeches.
AIR II. To its own tune.
To happy ignorance
Connubial peace is owing:
'Tis a curse to be too knowing
Best let things take their chance.
A busy curiosity
Produces endless evils,
It turns the Gods felicity
To sharpest pangs of devils,
Supplying food to jealousy.
RECITATIVE.
(aside.)
What new rape is toward? To sixes and sevens,
This tyrant, for it's sake, will jumble the heavens.
I'll take the law.
(to Jup.)
My proctor, with a summons
Shall cite you, sir, t'appear at Doctor's Commons.
Let him—but first I'll chase from Heaven yon varlet,
What, for detecting you and your vile harlot?
Fine scheme! banish the Sun! drive out Apollo!
That you, of lawless love, deep draughts may swallow.
You'll then not need, thou grand monarque of Horners,
Skulk with your misses into holes and corners.
AIR III. Shaan Bwee.
Think not lewd Jove
Thus to wrong my chaste love,
For spite of your rakehelly godhead
By day, and by night,
Juno will have her right
Nor be, of dues nuptial, defrauded.
I'll ferrit the haunts
Of your female gallants,
In vain you in darkness enclose them,
Your favourite jades,
I'll plunge to the shades,
Or into cows metamorphose them.
RECITATIVE.
Peace termagant, I swear by Styx—our thunder
Shall hurl him to the earth.
Sire, we knock under.
Ha, ha, ha,
(Aside)
O jest most precious!
'Twill serve a thousand years hence to refresh us.
I say, down with him, Jove—exert your puissance,
Morbleu, the puppy's grown a public nuisance,
Ay, ay, short work—put out the light, and then—
AIR V. There was a jovial Beggar.
No difference of character,
Vice, virtue—idle dreams!
For lewd, or chaste, or foul, or fair,
Must then be only names,
When a sporting all may go, may go, may go,
&c.
Screen'd from the husband's jealous eyes,
All love, all free as air,
No wanton need to fear surprize
Oh what a life were there!
When a sporting,
&c.
Then hey for trumps, for matadores
And rare sansprendre voles,
Old maids will fly, when past amours,
To dear quadrille by shoals.
And a gambling,
&c.
RECITATIVE.
O brave, we nod his doom!
Hold, hold, have patience
Papa—No bowels far your own relations!
RECIT. accompanied.
What can this hurly-burly, this helter-skelter mean?
Jove looks confounded surly!—Chaos is come again.
AIR VI. To It's own tune.
Be by your friends advised,
Too harsh, too hasty dad!
Maugre your bolts, and wise head,
The world will think you mad.
What worse can Bacchus teach men,
His roaring bucks, when drunk,
Then break the lamps, beat watchmen
And stagger to some punk.
RECITATIVE.
You saucy scoundrel—there sir—come Disorder,
Down Phoebus, down to earth, we'll hear no farther.
RECIT. accompanied.
Roll, thunders, roll, blue lightnings flash around him,
The blab shall find our sky can do without him.
Thunder and lightning. Jupiter darts a bolt at him, he falls.—Jupiter re-assumes his throne, and the Gods all ascend together, singing the initial chorus. Jove in his chair, &c.
SCENE
A Champaign country with a distant village; violent storm of thunder and lightning. Shepherds sleeping in the field are rouzed by it and run away frighted. One leaves his cloak, hat, and guittar behind him. Apollo is seen whirling in the air, as cast from heav'n; he falls to earth, with a rude shock, and lies for a while, stunn'd: at length he begins to move, rises, advances, and looking upward, speaks.
RECIT. accompanied.
Zooks! what a crush! a pretty decent tumble!
Kind usage, Mr. Jove—sweet sir—your humble.
Well, down, I am;—no bones broke—tho' sorely pepper'd!
Here doom'd to stay.—What can I do?—turn shepherd.
Puts on the cloak, &c.
A lucky thought.—In this disguise, Apollo
No more but
Pol,
the swain, some flock I'll follow.
Nor doubt I, with my voice, guittar, and person,
Among the nymphs to kick up some diversion.
AIR VII. Hang me if I marry.
With fun, my disgrace I'll parry
While here on earth, I tarry,
With the nymphs, in my way,
I'll kiss and play,
But hang me if I marry—hang me if I marry
With the nymphs, &c.
Let the sky go to wreck, and miscarry,
Without my luminary,
Pol
here will stay,
To kiss and play
To toy, but never marry—toy, but never marry.
Pol
here will stay, &c. &c.
Enter SILENO.
RECITATIVE.
Whom have we here! a sightly clown!—and sturdy!
Hum—plays, I see, upon the hurdy-gurdy.
Seems out of place—a stranger,—all in tatters,
I'll hire him—he'll divert my wife and daughters.
—Whence, and what art thou boy?
An orphan lad, Sir;
Pol
is my name;—a shepherd once my dad, Sir;
I'th upper parts here—tho' not born to serving.
I'll now take on, for, faith, I'm almost starving.
You've drawn a prize i'th' lottery.—So have I too;
Why,— I'm the master you could best apply to.
AIR VIII. To it's own tune.
Since you mean to hire for service
Come with me, you jolly dog,
You can help to bring home harvest,
Tend the sheep, and feed the hog.
Fa la la.
With three crowns, your standing wages,
You shall daintily be fed;
Bacon, beans, salt beef and cabbage,
Butter, milk, and oaten-bread.
Fa la la.
Come strike hands, you'll live in clover,
When we get you once at home,
And when daily labour's over
We'll all dance to your strum, strum.
Fa la la.
RECITATIVE.
(aside.)
From Nectar, and Ambrosia, 'tis coarse diet;
When I was well, why could I not be quiet.
(After a pause takes
Sileno
by the hand and sings to the foregoing air.)
Done, strike hands, I take your offer,
Farther on, I may fare worse,
Zooks, I can no longer suffer,
Hungry guts, and empty purse.
Fa la la.
DUETTO. Air continued.
Do, strike hands; 'tis kind I offer,
I strike hands, and take your offer,
Farther seeking you'll fare worse,
Farther on I may fare worse,
Pity such a lad, should suffer,
Zooks, I can no longer suffer,
Hungry guts, and empty purse.
Hungry guts, and empty purse.
Fa la la
Exeunt, dancing, and singing the chorus.
SILENO's Farm-House.
Daphne
and
Nysa,
discover'd running,—their spinning-wheels over turned.
Ha, ha, ha!
But
Nysa,
how goes on squire
Midas'
courtship?
Your sweet
Damaetas,
pimp to his great worship
Brought me from him a purse;—but the conditions—
—I've cur'd him, I believe, of such commissions.
The moon-calf! this must blast him with my father.
Right. So we'er rid of the two frights together.
AIR IX. If 'tis joy to wound a Lover.
If the swain we sigh for press us,
Oh how pleasing 'tis to please!
If the fright we loath address us
How delightful 'tis to teize.
RECITATIVE.
Arch Monkey, hang me if I thought 'twas in you.
Well
Ny
—work you your Squire—as for my Ninny—
If he shan't curse—then call me driv'ling Gipsey—
The hour that first on
Daph
he cast a sheep's eye.
AIR X. Mirleton.
If I cannot plague the lubber,
Now I have him in my crib,
If, when he begins to blubber,
I can't soothe or laugh, or fib,
Doom'd for life, I may be,
To play with my baby,
And to wear a slabb'ring bib.
Ha! ha! ha!—Ha! ha! ha!
Mysis
enters hastily.
RECITATIVE,
Hey-day! what mare's nest's found?—For ever grinning:
Ye rantipoles—is't thus you mind your spinning.
AIR XI. Three Sheep-skins.
Girls are known
To mischief prone;
If ever they be idle,
Who would rear
Two daughters fair,
Must hold a steady bridle:
For here they skip,
And there they trip,
And this and that way sidle.
For here they skip, &c.
Giddy Maids,
Poor silly jades,
All after men are gadding;
They flirt Pall mall,
Their train to swell,
To coxcomb, coxcomb adding
To ev'ry fop
They're Cock-a-hoop,
And set their mother's madding.
To ev'ry fop, &c.
Enter
Sileno
introducing
Pol.
RECITATIVE.
Now, dame, and girls, no more let's hear you grumble
At too hard toil:—I chanc'd, just now, to stumble,
On this stout drudge,—and hir'd him—fit for labour.
To'm lad—then he can play and sing and caper.
He shall not stay—unknown to me to hire him,
A lath!
Nay there you're out,—no toil can tire him.
(putting
Pol.
from
Daph.
)
Gad's me! your distance, scare-crow! cursed civil!
Beggars once mounted, gallop to the devil.
Gaffer,
(to Sil.)
your blunders every hour surprize one:
This washy clout a drudge!—ah, thou'rt a wise one.
Fine rubbish to bring home, a strolling thrummer!
(
to
Pol.)
What art thou good for? speak, thou ragged mummer.
Mother, for shame—
Peace, saucebox, or I'll maul you.
Goody, my strength and parts you under value.
For his and your work, I am brisk and handy.
A sad cheat else—
What you, you jacka-dandy.
(aside)
Our Gammer, sure, has tipt her
of stingo!
Am I Apollo, and must bear this lingo?
AIR XII. A tune in Queen Mab.
Pray goody, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue:
Why flash those sparks of fury from your eyes?
Remember, when the judgement's weak, the prejudice is strong.
A stranger why will you despise?
Ply me
Try me
Prove, e'er you deny me,
If you cast me
Off, you blast me
Never more to rise.
Pray, goody, please, &c.
RECITATIVE.
Sirrah, this insolence deserves a drubbing.
With what sweet temper he bears all her snubbing
(aside)
Oons, no more words—go boy, and get your dinner.
Exit
Pol.
Fye, why so cross grain'd to a young beginner?
to Mys.
So modest!
So genteel!
(to
Mys.
)
Not pert, nor lumpish.
Would he were hang'd!
La! mother, why so frumpish?
AIR XIII. To the tune of, Non, Non, volette n'est paint trompeuse.
Mama, how can you be so ill-natured,
To the gentle handsome swain?
To a lad, so limb'd, so feature'd,
Sure 'tis cruel to give pain,
Sure 'tis cruel &c.
Girls, for you my fears perplex me
I'm alarm'd on your account:
Wife, in vain you tieze and vex me,
I will rule depend upon't.
Ah! ah!
Mama!
Mama, how can you be so illnatur'd,
Ah, ah, to a lad so limb'd, so featured?
To the gentle, handsome swain
Sure 'tis cruel to give pain,
Sure 'tis cruel to give pain,
To the gentle, handsome swain.
Girls, for you my fears perplex me,
I'm alarm'd on your accounts.
Wife in vain you tieze and vex me
I will rule depend upon't.
Mama
Psha! Pshaw!
Papa
Ah! ah!
Mama, how can yon be so ill-natured,
Psha, psha, you must not be so ill-natur'd;
Ah, ah, to a lad so limb'd, so featur'd,
To the gentle, handsome swain,
He's a gentle, handsome swain,
Sure 'tis cruel to give pain,
T'is my pleasure to give pain.
Sure 'tis cruel to give pain,
He's a gentle, handsome swain
To the gentle handsome swain.
To your odious, fav'rite swain.
Exeunt.
Squire
Midas
discovered in his parlour, smoaking his pipe, lolling in an easy chair.
Damaetas
waiting at a respectful distance.
RECITATIVE.
Nysa, you say, refus'd the guineas British.
Ah! please your worship—she is wond'rous skittish.
Out, pimp, said she,—take back to him who sent it, That trash—
Death!—scorn'd!—the minx shall sore repent it.
She scorns you—
But when you told her what I meant to settle—
She flounc'd, you'd swear her tongue was of bell-metal.
I'll have her, cost what 'twill, odsbods—I'll force her—
The halter—
As for madam, I'll divorce her.—
The bishop's court—lard help your paper noddle!
Did she not give the slip to young Sir
Dawdle?
Her sitter
Daphne
too, a curse upon her,
Uses me worse, than
Nisa
does your honour.
Some favour'd lout incog our bliss opposes,
Ay,
Pol,
the hind, puts out of joint our noses.
AIR XIV. Fanny's fairer than a flower.
Wretched he, whose pain or pleasure
Hangs on faithless woman's mind;
Such the merchant's state, whose treasure
Swims the sport of tide and wind.
Female likings are unsteady
As the veering weather-cock.
Miss, for new addresses ready
Shifts her lover, like her smock.
RECITATIVE.
I've heard of that
Pol
's tricks,—of his sly tampering
To fling poor
Pan,
but I'll soon send him scampering.
An upstart!—rival me!—by George, I'll pheaze him.
Sir, he bewitches every girl that sees him.
'Sblood, I'll commit him—drive him to the gallows!
Where is old
Pan?
Tipling, Sir, at th' ale-house.
Run, fetch him—we shall hit on some expedient—
To rout this
Pol.
I fly,
(going returns)
Sir, your obedient.
Exit.
RECIT. accompanied.
What boots my being Squire
Justice of Peace, and Quorum?
Church-warden—knight o'th' shire,
And Custos Rotulorum?
If saucy little
Nysa
's heart rebellious,
My squireship slights, and hanckers after fellows?
AIR XV. To a French tune, A la Santé du Pere d'Oleron.
Shall a paltry clown, not fit to wipe my shoes
Dare my amours to cross?
Shall a peasant minx, when justice
Midas
wooes
Her nose up at him toss?
No, I'll kidnap—then possess her.
I'll sell her
Pol
a slave, get mundungus in exchange,
So glut to the height of pleasure,
My love and my revenge.
No, I'll kidnap, &c.
Exit.
SCENE An Alehouse.
Pan
is discovered sitting at a table, with a tankard, pipes, and tobacco before him, his bagpipes lying by him.
AIR XVI. Sheelagh na Guig.
Jupiter wenches and drinks,
He rules the roast in the sky,
Yet he's a fool if he thinks
That he's as happy as I.
Juno rates him
And grates him,
And leads his highness a weary life;
I have my lass
And my glass,
And strole a batchelor's merry life.
Let him fluster
And bluster,
Yet cringe to his harridan's furbella;
To my fair tulips
I glew lips,
And clink the cannikin here below.
Jupiter wenches,
&c.
Enter DAMAETAS.
RECITATIVE.
There sits the old soaker—his pate troubling little
How the world wags—so he gets drink and vittle:
Hoa, master Pan!—Gad you've trod on a thistle!
You may pack up your all, sir, and go whistle.
The wenches have turn'd tail—to yon buck-ranter,
Tickled by his guittar—they scorn your chanter.
AIR XVII. Tune in Pant. of Fortunatus
All around the maypole how they trot,
Hot
Pot,
And good ale have got;
Routing,
Shouting,
At you flouting.
Fleering,
Jeering,
And what not:
All around the maypole,
&c.
There is old Sileno frisks like a mad
Lad,
Glad
To see us sad,
Cap'ring,
Vap'ring,
While Pol, scraping,
Coaxes
The doxies
As he did the dad.
All around the maypole,
&c.
RECITATIVE.
O blood, and guts! What, dare the tinkler scurvy
Intrude, to turn my wenches topsy turvy?
A fop! chouse me out of my choice trol-lops,
I'll smash his trim guittar—about his chaps.
AIR XVIII. My wife's a galloping, &c.
Shall he run away with the lasses
By his trills, and his slurs, and his graces,
From me who at fairs, and horse-races,
Have pip'd to the laird of the clan.
A fribble!—If I can but catch him
I'll pummel—I'll pinch, and I'll scratch him,
I warrant I'll make him not match him
Self as a musician with Pan.
RECITATIVE.
Keep yourself cool, good master Pan—this courage
Is thrown away—Pol's a mere chip in Porridge;
Softly and fair—
You're right;—our Squire, when mellow,
'Tis he shall do't—he's a rough, hect'ring fellow.
Why he sent me for you—He, with kicks o'th' crupper,
Will make Pol dance—He'll gi'n salt eel to's supper.
Step you before—I'll but just pay my reck'ning
And in a crack attend his worship's beck'ning.
Exit
Dam.
He throws some pieces on the table, and departing is met by
MYSIS, entering hastily.
O Pan! the devil to pay—both my sluts frantic!
Both in their tantrums, for yon cap'ring antick.
Rivals forsooth!
What, for a straggling goatherd!
For this fine piece of work—thanks to my dotard.
AIR XIX. Sheelagh na Guiragh.
Sure I shall run with vexation distracted,
To see my purposes thus counter-acted!
This way, or that way, or which way soever,
All things run contrary to my endeavour.
Daughters projecting
Their ruin and shame,
Fathers neglecting
The care of their fame,
Nursing in bosom a treacherous viper;
Here's a fine dance—but 'tis he pays the piper:.
RECITATIVE.
But I'll go seek 'em all—and if I find 'em,
I'll drive 'em—as if Old Nick were behind 'em.
Going
Soa, soa,—don't flounce;
Avast—disguise your fury.
Pol we shall trounce.
Midas is judge and jury.
AIR XX. Tune, Planxty Johnston.
When at your foe
A mortal blow
You aim,
Your scheme
Let him not know.
To gain your end
You must pretend,
Sincerely
And dearly,
To be his friend,
'Till be cease of your love to be doubtful.
Your game to play,
The sailors say
Look one, but row another way.
The dean, to fish up
Lawn sleeves, and be bishop
Says no, to the mitre that would fill his wish up▪
And pussey
Can counterfeit sleeping,
When mousey
Steals tip-a-toe creeping;
Then winking,
And blinking,
She catches,
Dispatches,
And swallows him up at a mouthful.
RECITATIVE.
Out on't, I'll act above-board—I'll ne'er flatter,
Not I—I scorn it—tell me no such matter.
My gossips all would loll their tongues,
To see me with my vengeance trifle.
Ay, but to pay him home those wrongs,
Your transports you must stifle.
Srifle!—dye first! shall Mysis stoop to crawling!
No—by my will—these hands should stretch him sprawling.
You do but put him on his guard by bawling
AIR. XXI. Duett. Gavott in Overt. Otho.
This rash frenzy
Foils, not mends you.
How you splutter!
Check this clutter:
Hust—don't utter
Threats, or mutter.
If he trips,
Success attend ye
Fair words butter
No parsnips.
Grov'ling spirit!
I can't bear it.
Can a mother,
Without pother
Her rage smother
When girls both are
By his wiles
Debauch'd, or near it▪
Can she cloath her
Face with smiles.
Spite loquacious
Makes foes cautious.
Mean submission
Meets derision.
Beldam froward!
Sneaking coward!
In surprize
The triumph lies.
I despise
Such low disguise.
Ribornello.
Together.
Nay let's trick him,
Sooth, then hick him.
Wait,
Wait,
Wait, nor mutter.
Ruin utter
Smooth, but pat
Unaware shall stick him,
And i'th' the gutter
Lay him flat.
Zooks I'll twinge him,
I'll unhinge him.
Tumult, splutter,
Coil, and clutter.
Wait,
Nor mutter.
Strait, vile brat
Shall crush, shall swinge him.
And i'th' gutter
Lay him flat.
Dance of Satyrs, Fauns, and Dryads.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
An old grove, in the midst, the old oracular oak by it self, its boughs decorated with votive wreaths. Enter
Sileno
alone, a garland in his hand. He seems struck with religious horror at the gloomy solitude. During the symphony he advances timorously, and hangs his garland on a branch:
RECIT. accompanied.
Hail, mystic oak!—zooks what a taking
Am I now in!—oh, how I shiver!
I'm in an ague—ha! the very shaking
Of the leaves, throws me all over int'a quaking,—
My wife! I'll ne'er forgive her—
I'm wet as in a river—
Ah! ha! there—what was't gave me a twitch?
It must have been a witch,
Or something diabolic.
Oh, 'tis a foolish frolic.
(Thunder and lightning
—Sileno
retires trembling to a corner of the stage, and there falls on his knees with hands uplifted.)
Duett. AIR I. To its own tune.
Wond'rous timber, who can'st hear,
All our questions without ear.
Without ear.
And make answer without tongue.
Without tongue.
Yet known never to be wrong.
Yet known never to be wrong.
Now awful silence break,
And to the purpose speak.
Speak.
Is my dame mov'd by the devil
That she can't to
Pol
be civil?
To
Pol
be civil.
Say, what means the shrewish fripp'ry
Dinn'ng still that girls are slipp'ry?
Girls are slipp'ry.
Dupes shall we all by
Pol
be made.
All by
Pol
be made.
If I don't discard the lad.
Don't discard the lad.
AIR II. Newmarket.
Oh fye, wooden Oracle, fye for shame
To let me go back as wife as I came.
Exit.
SCENE. A Wood.
A wood, and lawn near
Sileno
's farm, flocks grazing at a distance,—a tender slow symphony. Enter
Daphne,
walks about melancholic and silent; at length lays herself down on a bank absorbed in meditation.
Nysa
watching her.
RECITATIVE.
O ho'! is it so—Miss
Daphne
in the dumps,
Mum—snugs the word—I'll lead her such a dance
Shall make her stir her stumps.
To all her secret haunts,
Like her shadow, I'll follow and watch her:
And, faith, mamma shall hear on't if I catch her.
AIR III. From tree to tree.
To blast a rival's happiness
We ev'ry art employ:
And scarcely can our own success,
Convey a purer joy.
A kind of victory we feel,
If she no triumph gain
Deny'd a real bliss, we steal
False pleasure from her pain.
RECIT. partly accompanied.
(Daphne
rises, and comes forward musing
)
La! how my heart goes pit-a-pat what thumping
E'er since my father brought us home this bumpkin.
Heigho!—heigho!—yet why
Mope thus and sigh?
Has not the fellow eyes as well as I?
Gad's heart o' grace I'll pluck up;
Throw myself in his way and pump him,
Appear less starch'd and stuck up.
Then let him guess my meaning by my mumping.
AIR IV. To a French tune, Quand on Scait aimer et plair.
He's as tight a lad to see to,
As e'er stept in leather shoe
And, what's better, he'll love me too,
And to him I'll prove true blue.
Tho' my sister casts a Hawk's eye
I defy what she can do.
He o'er looked the little Doxy,
I'm the girl he means to woo.
He's as tight, &c.
Hither I stole out to meet him,
He'll, no doubt, my steps pursue,
If the youth prove true, I'll fit him;
If he's false,—I'll fit him too.
If he's false, &c.
He's as tight, &c.
(End with the first strain.)
RECITATIVE.
Enter
Pol.
Think o' the devil—'tis said,
He's at your shoulder—
This wench was running in my head,
And pop—behold her.
Such fair occasions are not met with often,
What if I touch the tender vein,
And whine some melting, plaintive strain
Her heart to soften.
(kneels to her)
AIR V. When on the dear bosom lying.
Lovely nymph asswage my anguish;
At your feet a tender swain
Prays you will not let him languish,
One kind look would ease his pain.
Did you know the lad who courts you
He not long needs sue in vain;
Prince of song, of dance of sports—you
Scarce will meet his like again.
Did you know, &c.
RECITATIVE.
Sir; you're such an oglio,
Of perfection in folio,
No damsel can resist you:
Your face so attractive,
Limbs so supple and active,
That by this light,
At the first sight,
I could have run and kiss'd you.
AIR VI. The priest in his boots.
If you can caper, as well as you modulate,
With the addition of that pretty face,
Pan,
who was held by our shepherds a God o' late;
Will be kick'd out, and you set in his place.
His beard so frowsy, his gestures so awkward are
And his bag-pipe has so drowsy a drone,
That if they find you, as I did, no backwarder,
You may count an all the girls as your own.
RECITATIVE.
I ask but you—and yours I'll be for ever.
How can I trust?
You may, you must.
Vows are brittle,
You'll prove fickle.
I'll die first.
That's clever.
D' you think I'll range:
Against all change,
Your charms are my heart's armour.
(from within)
Pol, Pol, make haste, come hither.
Death, what a time to call,
Oh! not your old lungs of leather.
B'ye
Daph.
B'ye
Pol.
My charmer.
AIR VII. An Italian tune of Pescetti.
Neatest,
Compleatest
And sweetest
Dear Fubsy.
This is
A crisis,
When
Mysis
Cross snubs I
Could brave and stay;
Yet your
Food nature
Kind creature,
Her malice
Guessing,
Our blessing.
Suppressing
Might gaul us,
Therefore away.
(During the symphony, they take a tender leave and part)
Exit.
Pol.
Nysa
bursts from her lurking place.
RECITATIVE.
Marry come up, forsooth,
I'st me, you forward vixen,
You choose to play your tricks on?
And could your liquorish tooth
Find none but my sweetheart to fix on?
Marry come up a gain.
Indeed! my dirty cousin!
Have you a right to every swain?
Ay, tho' a dozen.
AIR VIII. Bobbing Joan. DUETTO.
I.
My minikin miss,—do you fancy that
Pol
Can ever be caught by an infant's dol?
Can you, miss Maypole, suppose he will fall
In love with the gyantess of Guild-hall?
Pigmy elf
Colossus itself.
You will lie 'till your mouldy upon the shelf.
Pigmy elf, &c.
II.
You stump o'th' gutter, you hop o' my thumb,
A husband for you must from Lilliput come,
You stalking steeple, you gawky stag,
Your husband must come from Brobdignag.
Sour grapes,
Lead Apes,
I'll humble your vanity mistress Trapes.
III.
Miss your assurance
And miss, your high airs
Is past all indurance
Are at their last pray'rs.
No more of those freedoms miss
Nysa,
I beg,
Miss
Daphne's,
conceit must be lower'd a peg.
Poor spite!
Pride hurt!
Liver white!
Rare sport!
Do, shew your teeth, spitfire, do, but you can't bite.
This haughtiness soon will he laid in the dirt,
Poor spite! &c.
Pride hurt, &c.
Exit, Daph.
RECIT. accompanied.
Good lack! what is come o'er me?
I'm all bewitched, untwisted.
Ah! Cupid, thou'rt a wizard
Thy spells are not to be resisted.
Alas,
Daphne,
has step'd before me!
Envy and love, devour me.
Pol, doats upon her phiz hard
'Tis that, 'tis that sticks in my gizzard.
Midas
appears now twenty times more hideous
Ah,
Nysa,
what resource?—a cloyster.
Death alive—yet thither must I run,
And turn nun.
Lest hurried by love prodigious
Or lur'd by hope insidious,
I be by
Pol
undone,
As you'd undo an oyster.
AIR IX. A French. tune, Assis sur l'Herbertte.
In those greasy old tatters
His charms brighter shine;
Then his guittar he clatters
With tinkling divine:
But, my sister;
Ah! he kist her,
And me he pass'd by;
I'm jealous
Of the fellow's
Bad taste and blind eye.
I'm jealous,
&c.
Going out, is met by MIDAS, entering.
RECITATIVE.
Turn, tygress, turn; nay fly not—
I have thee at a why not.
How comes it, little Nysa,
That heart to me so icy
Should be to Pol like tinder
Burnt up t'a very cinder?
Sir, to my virtue ever steady,
Firm as a rock
I scorn your shock,
But why this attack?
A mistress can you lack
Who have a wife already?
Ay there's the curse—but she is old and sickly;
And would my Nysa grant the favour quickly,
Would she yield now—I swear by the Old Harry
The moment madam's coffin'd—Her I'll marry.
AIR X. The Lottery.
O what pleasures will abound
When my wife is laid in ground
Oh what pleasures,
&c.—
Let earth cover her
We'll dance over her
When my wife's laid in the ground.
Let earth,
&c.
Oh how happy should I be
Would little Nysa pig with me.
Oh how happy,
&c.
How I'd mumble her,
Touze and tumble her
Would little Nysa pig with me.
How I'd mumble,
&c.
RECITATIVE.
Young birds alone are caught with chaff,
But think not, squire, this farce on
Me e're shall pass;
At your base scheme I laugh,
E'er I fall to, the grace
Shall be pronounced by the parson.
Yet take my vows.—
I would not take your bond, sir,—
Half my estate—
No, nor the whole,—my fond sir.
AIR XI. A Pantomime Tune.
Ne'er will I be left i'th' lurch,
Cease your bribes and wooing:
'Till I'm made a bride i'th' church
I'll keep man from doing.
What are riches
And soft speeches?
Baits and fetches,
To bewitch us:
When you've won us
And undone us,
Cloy'd you shun us
Frowning on us
For our easy cooing.
Can your palace, plate or coach,
Can your diamonds glitt'ring
Bridle the tongue of foul reproach?
Gibers will be titt'ring.
Then poor stumbler,
How't must humble her
(If a sumbler
She lets mumble her)
When, in her hearing,
Whisp'ring, sneering,
Chatt'ring, swearing,
Hissing, tearing,
Gall'ry, box and pitt ring.
Exit
RECITATIVE.
Well, master Pol I'll tickle,
For him, at least, I have a rod in pickle:
When he's in limbo
Not thus our hoity toity miss
Will stick her arms a kimbo.
AIR XII. Lary Grogan.
If into your hen yard
The treacherous Reynard
Steals slily, your poultry to ravage, to ravage.
With gun you attack him,
With beagles you track him,
All's fair to destroy the fell savage, fell savage.
So Pol, who comes picking
Up my tender chicken
No means do I scruple to banish, to banish.
With pow'r I'll o'erbear him,
With fraud I'll ensnare him
By hook, or by crook he shall vanish, shall vanish.
Going out, he is met by PAN.
RECITATIVE.
So squire, well met.—I flew to know your business.
Why, Pan, this Pol we must bring down on his knees.
That were a feat indeed!—a feat to brag on.
Let's home—we'll there concert it o'er
flagon.
I'll make him skip—
As St. George did the dragon.
AIR XIII. Tune in Fortunatus.
Strip him,
Whip him.
Let his shoulder feel your lash on't.
Clip him,
Rip him,
Folly now to he compassionate.
If such a little dapper,
Pert, saucy whippersnapper,
Sileno's understrapper,
Slily
Simp'ring,
Whimp'ring,
Of your dear Nysa beguile ye—
Sniv'ling,
Driv'ling,
Will but disgrace and defile ye
Vigour,
Rigour,
Hurry,
Flurry,
Are the measures fittest for ye.
My plots private
You'll connive at;
Thus we gain the point we drive at
Or by covert
Practices, or ouvert.
Exeunt.
SCENE a Room in SILENO'S House. Daphne discovered at work.
Enter DAMAETAS, who sees her not.
RECIT. accompanied.
Heigho! my very heart will burst asunder,
What star malign was I born under!
A muckworm herd
To me preferr'd,
O blood and thunder!
[Sees Daph.]
Ha, Daph, alone!—To silence
I'm aw'd—The Devil's in it.
Have at her—Here goes—.
Should she consent—who knows,
This may be the critical minute;
For ever lost a while hence!
Egad, I'm all agog on't.
Seize Time by the forelock,
E'en make a hog, or a dog on't;
The bolder push, the more luck.
RECITATIVE.
Who sent for you, you hoddy doddy?
(aside)
There, now, how cross!—
(to her)
Nobody.
I came o'myself, as usual,
The question to pop.
Get you gone, you milk-sop;
What, after my refusal!
Ah Daphne, you stop the breath o' me;
Hussey, you'll be the death o' me.
Ah, why, dear girl, why take up with that beggar,
And use your own Damaetas like a neger?
AIR XIV. Tune, Nanny of the Hill,
Since first those eyes enslav'd my heart
In size I'm wasted half—
My looks betray my inward smart,
Ah cruel, cruel Daph.
Ah cruel! ah cruel! ah cruel, cruel Daph.
Inhuman maid, my sighs you scout,
My tears but make you laugh,
Yet at first sight, an upstart lout
Has nabb'd my fickle Daph.
Ah fickle! ah fickle! ah fickle, fickle Daph.
How can you on my courtship frown,
My wealth despise as chaff,
Yet suffer such a clumsy clown
To win and tickle Daph.
To win and tickle, to win and tickle Daph.
RECITATIVE.
You purse-proud bag of lies,
Who gave you leave my actions
Thus saucily to scrutinize
And load with base detractions?
Farther a field I weet you
Quick, bundle up your packet,
For fear this beggar meet you
And thrash your jacket.
AIR XV. A French tune. Tourteulle.
Yes; your wealth I hold at nought,
Daphne's heart shall ne'er be bought;
Ne'er to church haste
Basely purchas'd
By a rich ninny;
Who, to keep her chaste,
Would lock her up like his guinea.
In your pain my pleasure is,
Jealous dolt, I hate your phiz,
Hissing gander
My Philander
Scorns your aspersion;
Pitiful slander
Renders you more my aversion.
Exit.
RECITATIVE.
(whistles)
Hey toss! Sh'as paid me soundly!
A swinging rap o'th' knuckles.
Well, to these honeysuckles
He's a meer oaf who truckles.
For miss the more he buckles
To, and will on ground lye,
The more curvetts and chuckles.
AIR XVI. Farewel the Hills and Vallies.
By whining
Pining
Sighing
Coquetts are never won,
But, fright 'em
Spite 'em
Slight 'em
Into your arm's they run.
A coward,
How hard
Toward
His foe it is to push!
Restrain him
Rein him
Train him,
He's mad on death to rush.
Exit.
SCENE Sileno's Garden.
Enter
Sileno
and
Mysis.
RECITATIVE.
Why—is the devil in you Gammer.
Have I no refuge from your clamour?
Was ever wife so basely treated?
So cross'd, so gaul'd, so fretted!
O Gods! I shall run crazy
Mad, mad!
No March-hare madder,
Do, lambkin give it vent,—'twill ease you;
And make your heart the gladder.
AIR XVII. When that I was a little tiny Boy.
When gathering clouds obscure the sky
With a crish, crash,
Flish and flash,
The thunders rowl, and the lightnings fly;
Then rain—and all is lullaby.
So when a vixen's passions swell
Tongue all ire,
Eyes on fire,
Bosom rent by fiends of hell,
At length tears stream—and all is well.
RECITATIVE.
Well!—I'll be even with that spark yet.
Of fish a dainty kettle
You have drest—you numscul beetle;
You've brought your hogs to a fair market.
Why!—I'm all i'th' dark yet.
Know then thou peerless blockhead,
Your scoundrel, would he were choaked,
With his quips, and his quillets
And running his rigs
With both your daughters has intrigues
Nay here, read but these billets—
Psha! put them in your pocket
Did not the sacred oak,
I mock it—
Swear to me, on his conscience
That by
Pol
's means—
His means!—what nonsense!—
But I've a plot shall make you rue,
And keep the house too hot for you;
Don't be surpriz'd, if on the sudden,
Your minion give the crow a pudding
Soon mounted in the air, if
You chance to see the cudden
A caper cut before the sheriff.
AIR XVIII. To an Italian Opera tune.
The wolf that slaughter'd finds her whelps,
With bowlings fills the forest,
Their murtherer tracks with shrillest yelps,
All food neglecting or rest.
So my revenge shall
Pol
pursue,
I'll closely watch his waters;
'Tll at the gallows tree he rue
The wrongs he did my daughters.
Exit.
Enter
(to Sil.) Pol.
Gad's bud, I dread her vengeance
An angry woman to destroy
What she hates, would employ
The devil, and all his emgines.
sees
Pol.
Pol,
here's a storm a brewing.
Old
Pan,
and our
Mysis
Are hatching devices
To perpetrate your ruin.
Alas, what have I done—poor stranger!
Won't you protect me, sir, from danger?
Tut, they shall find I ken 'em,
And on themselves can turn their venom,
Exit.
Poor fools! how weak, how shallow
Are all your plots against
Apollo.
These clowns I pity—but my spleen 'twill pamper
Midas
and
Pan
to hamper,
Their projects to quash
And their pride to abash,
When all my rays burst on them with one flash.
How I shall laugh, when huddled in a clu
ter,
They stare, gaping like stuck pigs at my lustre.
AIR XIX. When Faries dance round on the grass.
When fairies dance round on the grass
And revel to night's awful noon,
Each elf with his tight little lass
Trips to the pale light of the moon,
If't chance that the grey dawn of day
Peep in on their frolicks too soon,
In fright they all scuttle away,
And follow the glimpse of the moon.
(As he is going off, enter
Daphne
on one side,
Nysa
on the other, both run to him.)
RECITATIVE.
O
Pol!
the fat's all in the fire!
Such banging
In store for us.
For you no less than hanging.
The devil there is!—what means this sad haranguing?
Fly, false deluder.
Quick, take leg, deceitful—
Take leg, and quit my girls! that were ungrateful.
AIR XX. To it's own tune.
My heart so o'er flow'th,
With love for you both,
That it cannot find room for fear,
Not the halter
Can alter
The passion that's rooted here.
Daphne
and
Nysa
together.
I scorn and detest
Double love in one breast
Such love is a jest
In vain you protest.
Such a love is not worth my care
For your vows are false as air.
Ay go dangle
I could mangle.
Oh how I burn!
Yes, to tyburn,
Don't suspect me,
Or reject me.
What heart without shedding a tear,
I'd escort you with pleasure my dear,
What gallows so bad as despair.
Why won't you believe me,
You want to deceive me.
Your falshood shall ne'er again grieve me.
Take my word, and my oath,
You fool us
Cajole us,
We'll shew you
We know you
Believe me
That at night I will satisfy both.
That at night I will satisfy both.
How, will you at night satisfy both?
No, you never can satisfy both.
Exeunt severally.
Dance of Nymphs and Swains.
End of the Second Act.
ACT III.
During the symphony,
Mercury
descends, and walks to and fro, tolling a bell, at intervals, as a public cryer; at the close, in broken air, he publishes the following advertisements.
AIR I.
O yes, O yes, O yes, this is to give notice.
Lost, or mislaid
Or stol'n, or stray'd,
From the regions over head,
Or reel'd down to earth, when maudlin,
A finical
Coxcombical
Pert, smock-fac'd, young godling;
He deals
In spells,
And fortunes tells,
Goes snacks
With quacks,
And trades
With jades,
Prying
Spying,
Pratt'ling
Tatt'ling
Up stairs, down stairs ratt'ling.
His carotty locks
As red as a fox;
As a switch tall and thin
Ne'er a rag to his skin,
And answers to the name of
Apollo.
Enter Pol.
RECITATIVE.
Hush ribald cur, this bawling
Unless you wish a mawling!
Heaven's, what a sink of slander your foul throat is!
Oh are you there, master
Apollo?
My elbow itch'd; I guess'd at what would follow.
Sirrah, you are a rogue beneath my notice.
AIR II. Kiss me fast my mother's coming.
Fine times, when each little
Pimping, upstart court lick-spittle
Worth disgrac'd dares hack and whittle
Shafts of malice throwing.
See the game cock's crest with mud upon't;
Strait the dunghill breed grows proud upon't,
Each bare beak
It's spleen will wreak,
All clapping wings, and crowing.
RECITATIVE.
Come come, let's buss, and friends.
Not 'till I curry your mungril hide.
Poo, let's shake hands, my hurry
Barr'd compliments.—Pray, pray, 'twas joke—I'm sorry.
Jove
's in a raging fume, a pelting chafe!
Oh! 'tis such fun, would make even
Pluto
laugh!
Do, let me know't.—I long, for his late kindness
To have him on the hip.
Hark then.—His highness,
Safe as he thought himself from your inquires,
Sruck up an assignation with Miss
Iris:
Juno
o'er heard it all—
—So had them track'd,
I do suppose, and caught them in the fact.
Ah, madam's an old hand:—she better judging,
Lock'd
Iris
up, and slipt into her lodging;
Lay snug—far'd well—ne'er cried, roast meat, but chuckled,
While old Twangdillo dub'd himself a cuckold.
AIR III. Nancy Dawson.
The Gods were all call'd in to see
How fond a husband
Jove
could be:
He strom'd; she laughed, yet, rouguishly
Pretended to conceal it.
His fury rose to such a pitch,
He call'd her lewd, case-harden'd witch,
Swore, to his girls he'd stick like pitch,
And wench in open day-light.
RECITATIVE.
Oh I shall burst!—a pious resolution!
Means he to put it strait in execution?
Now, now; your pardon's sign'd; on double wages
You're to light up, and run, your usual stages:
So mount your box, old geeho, I advise you
Resume your task diurnal,
He threatens t' advertise you
In every weekly Journal.
Well, I've a wench, or two—you understand me—
And a drole counter plot some knaves to catch,
Which in a trice, I will dispatch,
And then he may command me.
AIR IV. DUETTO.
A monarch may huff,
A senate may rage
In edicts too bluff,
In speeches so sage!
The minister glib
While he gives himself
Thinks how he may crib
For his private affairs.
These fatal mistakes
Call aloud for redress;
Consider few rakes
Would their own ribs caress.
A wife in the dark
Only squanders her charms,
Who, 'stead of her spark,
Finds her spouse in her arms.
But I'll display
And soon set to rights
In open day
Such unfair bites.
Cuckolds then will know their friends,
And, in like coin may make amends.
When our great sir, shall
Once fix the mode,
Horns universal
Will spread abroad,
And cuckoo that word of fear,
Familiar grow to marry'd ear.
Pol and Mercury together.
But I'll display
When our great sir
And soon set to rights
Shall once fix the mode
In open day
Horns univer-
Such unfair bites
-Sal will spread abroad
Cuckolds then will know their friends
And cuckoo that word of fear,
And, in like coin may make amends
Familiar grow, to marry'd ear.
Mercury re-ascends, and Pol Exit.
SCENE
Midas
's Parlour. Midas, Mysis,
and
Pan,
discovered in consultation over a large bowl of punch, pipes and tobacco.
RECITATIVE.
Come,
Pan,
your toast.—
Here goes, our noble Umpire,
And
Pol
's defeat—I'll pledge it in a bumper.
Hang him, in every scheme that whelp has cross'd us.
Sure he's the devil himself
Or doctor Faustus.
Ah! Squire—for
Pan
wou'd you but stoutly stickle,
This
Pol
would soon be in a wretched pickle.
You reason right—
His toby I shall tickle
Look, Squire, I've sold my butter, here it's price is
At your command, do but this jobb for
Mysis.
Count 'em.—Six guineas and an old jacobus
Keep
Pan,
and shame that scape-grace
coram no
us.
AIR V. Baaltiorough.
Mark what I say you'll repent if
Conscience's qualms you attend to;
You a great shire's representative
And not one job for a friend do?
Rouze up, nor thus your grave noddle shake,
off this tatterdemallion,
We'll stick to Pan, his party take,
For Pol's a paltry rascallion.
RECITATIVE.
(aside)
The justice in quandary!—Gad, we have him.—
Gammer, Pol's pipe is out; brandy can't save him.
Goody, as 'tis your request,
I pocket this here stuff,
And, as for that there peasant,
Trust me, I'll work his buff.
At the musical struggle
I'll bully and juggle,
My award's
Your sure card,
Blood, he shall fly his country—that's enough.
AIR VI. To its own Tune.
If in the courts your suit depend,
Or a cause you'd fain do hurt in,
Be sure you make the judge your friend
By a tip behind the curtain.
Then decree goes
Plump against your foes,
Tho' before it seem'd uncertain.
RECITATIVE.
Well said, my lad of wax—since you're so mettled
I'll have one tryal with this fop—that's settled.
A word i' your ear—You'll find it no hard matter,
When she'as lost Pol, to nab our crony's daughter.
AIR VII. Ligurum Cuss.
As soon as her doating piece fairly is sped,
Do you make your push, and a stout one:
For now she has got a sweetheart in her head,
She'll never be easy without one;
Rever'd by the shepherds, caress'd by the nymphs,
No dread or remorse shall come o'er us,
At sessions, in spite of the law and its imps,
We'll kick the whole country before us.
RECITATIVE.
Ha! ha! sit down, and make an end o'th' tankard,
I have no head for business till I've drank hard.
Nor have my brains guts in them till they're addle,
When I'm most rocky I best sit my saddle.
I always chuck a priming at the tap, or
A cogue of Nantzy, just to oil my clapper.
Well come, let's take one bouze, and roar a catch,
Then part to our affairs.—
A match.
A catch.
AIR VIII. A Catch. Cold and Raw.
Master Pol
And his toll-de roll-loll,
I'll buffet away from our plain, sir;
And I'll assist
Your worship's fist
With all my might and main, sir;
And I'll have a thump,
Tho' he is so plump,
And makes such a woundy racket.
I'll bluff,
I'll rough,
I'll huff,
I'll cuff,
And I warrant we pepper his jackett.
I'll bluff,
&c.
For all his cheats
And wenching feats
He shall rue on his knees 'em,
Or skip, by goles,
As high as Paul's,
Like ugly witch en besom;
Arraign'd he shall be
Of treason to me!
And I with my davy will back it;
I'll swear,
I'll snare,
I'll tear.
O rare!
And I'll warrant we pepper his jacket.
Chor.
I'll swear, I'll snare,
&c.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE
Discovers
Sileno
and
Damaetas
in warm argument, on the lawn before
Midas's
house.
RECITATIVE.
My
Daphne
a wife for thee! the squire's base Pandar!
To the plantations sooner would I send her.
Sir, your good wife approv'd my offers.
Name her not, Hag of Endor,
What knew she of thee but by thy coffers?
And shall this ditch-born whelp, this jackanapes.
By dint of congees and scrapes—
These are thy slanders and that canker'd hag's.—
A thing made up of pilfer'd rags—
Richer than thou with all thy brags
Of flocks, and herds, and money bags.
AIR X. DUETTO.
If a rival thy character draw
In perfection he'll find cut flaw,
With black he will paint
Make a devil of a saint
And change to an Owl a Maccaw.
Can a father pretend to be wise
Who his friend's good advice will despise?
Who, when danger is nigh,
Throws his spectacles by
And blinks thro' a green girl's eyes?
Your an impudent pimp and a grub,
You are fool'd by a beggarly scrub;
Your betters you snub.
Who will lend me a club,
This insolent fellow to drub?
Your an impudent pimp and a grub,
Your cajol'd by a beggarly scrub
Who will rot in a powdering tub,
Whom the prince of impostor's I dub;
A guinea for a club,
Your bald pate you'll rub
This muckworm to drub
When you find that your cub
Rub off, sirrah, rub, sirrah, rub.
Is debauch'd by a whip'd syllabub.
Enter
Mysis
attended by
Dapne
and
Nysa.
RECITATIVE.
Soh!—you attend the tryal,—we shall drive hence
Your vagabond—
I smoke your foul contrivance
Ah
Ny,
our fate depends upon this issue—
—for your sake, my claim I here forgo.
And with your
Pol,
much joy I wish you.
O, gemini, say'st thou me so?
Dear creature let me kiss you.
Let's kneel, and beg his stay, papa will back us.
Mama will storm,
What then, she can but whack us.
AIR XI. Quintetto. Viens que I'Examine-a-
Mother, sure you never
Will endeavour
To dissever
From my favour
So sweet a swain,
None so clever
E'er trod the plain.
Father, hopes you gave her,
Don't deceive her;
Can you leave her
Sunk for ever
In pining care,
Haste and save her
From black despair.
Think of his charming grace
His voice, shape, and face;
Hearts alarming;
Bosoms warming
With his soft lay:
He's so charming
Ah, let him stay.
He's so charming,
&c.
Sluts, are you lost to shame?
Wife, wife, be more tame.
This is madness!
Sober sadness!
I with gladness
Cou'd see him swing,
For his badness,
'Tis no such thing.
Must
Pan
resign, to this fop, his employment?
Must, I, to him, yield of
Daph.
the enjoyment?
Ne'er while a tongue I brandish,
Fop outlandish,
shall blandish.
Will you reject my income
Herds and clinkum.
Rot and sink 'em
Midas
must judge
And
Pol
must fly
Zounds,
Pol
shan't budge,
You lye
You lye
You lye, you lye.
Pan's
drone is fit for wild rocks and bleak mountains
Pol's
lyre suits best our cool groves and clear fountains.
Pol
is young and merry
Light and airy
As a fairy
Pan
is old and rusty
Stiff and fusty
Sowre and musty
Can you banish
Pol?
No, no, no, no.
Let
Pan
fall
Ay, let him go.
Ay, let him go.
Must
Pan
resign, to this fop, his employment?
Pan
's drone is fit for wild rocks and bleak mountains
Must I to
Pol,
yield of
Daph.
the enjoyment?
Pol
's lyre suits best our cool groves and clear fountains.
Ne'er while a tongue I brandish
Pol
is young and merry
Pan
is old and rusty.
Fop outlandish
Light and airy
Stiff and fusty
Daph
shall blandish
As a fairy
Sour, and crusty
Will you reject my income?
Herds and clincum
Never think e'm
Rot and sink 'em
Can you banish
Pol?
Midas
must judge,
No, no.
And
Pol
must fly
Pray let
Pan
fall,
Zounds,
Pol
shan't budge
Ay let him go
You lye, you lye
Yes, he shall go
Ay, let him go
Blood,
Pan
shall go
Poor
Pan!
poor I!
You lye, you lye.
Midas
comes forth enrag'd, attended by a crowd of Nymphs and Swains.
RECITATIVE.
Peace ho! is hell broke loose? what means this jawing?
Under my very nose this clapper clawing!
AIR XII. Kettle Bender.
What the devil's here to do
Ye logger heads, and gypsies?
Sirrah you, and hussey you
And each of you tipsey is.
But I'll sure pull down your pride as
A gun, or as I'm justice
Midas.
CHORUS
All.
O Tremendous justice
Midas,
Who shall oppose wise justice
Midas
All fall prostrate.
I'm given to understand that your all in a pother here
Disputing whether
Pan
or
Pol,
shall play to you another year.
Dare you think your clumsey lungs so proper to decide as
The delicate ears of justice
Midas?
O Tremendous,
&c.
RECITATIVE.
Soh! you allow it then—Ye mobbish rabble?
Enter
Pol.
and
Pan.
severally.
Oh, here comes
Pol,
and
Pan
—now stint your gabble.
Fetch my great chair—I'll quickly end this squabble.
AIR XIII. To it's own tune.
Now I'm seated
I'll be treated,
Like the sophi on his throne
In my presence
Scoundrel peasants,
Shall not call their souls their own.
My behest is
He who best is
Shall be fix'd musician chief,
Ne'er the loser,
Shall shew his nose here
But be transported like a thief.
O Tremendous,
&c.
RECITATIVE.
Masters, will you abide by this condition,
I ask no better
—I am all submission.
Strik up, sweet Sir,
—Sir, I attend your leisure
Pan,
take the lead,
—Since 'tis your worship's pleasure.
AIR XIV.
A pox of your pother about this or that,
Your shrieking or squeaking sharp or a flat;
I'm sharp by my bumpers, you're flat, master Pol,
So here goes a set-to at Toll de roll loll.
When Beauty her pack of poor lovers would hamper,
And after miss Will o' the Wisp the fools scamper,
Ding dong, in sing song, they the lady extol;
Pray what's all this fuss for, but—Toll de roll,
&c.
Mankind are a medley—a chance-medley race,
All start in full cry to give dame Fortune chace;
There's catch as catch can, hit or miss Luck is all,
And Luck's the best tune of life's Toll lol de roll.
I've done, please your worship, 'tis rather too long,
I only meant life is but an old song;
The world's but a tragedy, comedy, droll,
Where all act the scene of Toll loll de rol lol.
RECITATIVE.
By jingo, well perform'd for one of his age;
How, hang dog, don't you blush to shew your visage?
Why, master Midas, for that matter,
'Tis enough to dash one,
To hear the arbitrator,
In such unseemly fashion
One of the candidates bespatter
With so much partial passion.
Midas falls asleep.
AIR XV.
Ah, happy hours, how fleeting
Ye danc'd on down away;
When my foft vows repeating
At Daphne's feet I lay.
But, from her charms when sunder'd,
As Midas' frowns presage,
Each hour will seem an hundred,
Each day appear an age.
RECITATIVE.
Silence—this just decree all, at your peril
Obedient hear,—else I shall use you very ill.
The DECREE.
Pan shall remain.
Pol quit the plain.
Chorus,
Oh tremendous,
&c.
RECITATIVE.
All bow with me to mighty Pan—enthrone him.—
No pouting—and with festal chorus crown him!—
[The crowd forms two ranks beside the chair, and join in the chorus, whilst Midas crowns him with bays.]
CHORUS.
See triumphant sits the bard
Crown'd with bays, his due reward.
Exil'd Pol shall wander far,
Exil'd twang his faint guittar,
While, with ecchoing shouts of praise
We the bagpipe's glory raise.
RECITATIVE.
'Tis well!—what keeps you here—you ragamuffin?
Go trudge—or do you wait for a good cuffing?
RECIT. accompanied.
Now, listen all—The wrath of Jove, for rapine,
Corruption, lust, pride, fraud, there's no escaping.
Tremble, thou wretch—Thou'st stretch'd thy utmost tether,
Thou, and thy tools shall go to pot together.
AIR XVII. To various Tunes.
Dunce, I did but sham,
For Apollo I am,
God of music and king of Parnass:
Thy scurvy decree
For Pan, against me,
I reward with the ears of an ass.
Grand CHORUS.
Detected, baulk'd, and small,
On our marrow bones we fall.
Detected, baulk'd, and small,
On our marrow bones we fall.
Detected, baulk'd, and small,
On our marrow bones we fall.
Be merciful,
Alas, alas!
Be pitiful,
Alas, alas!
Forgive us, mighty Sol,
Alas, alas!
Thou a Billingsgate quean,
to Mys.
Thou a pandar obscene
to
Dam.
With, strumpets and bailiffs shall class.
Thou, driven from man
to
Mid.
Shalt wander with Pan,
He a stinking old goat, thou an ass, an ass,
&c.
Alas! Alas!
Now my heart's cur'd of folly.
—Be jolly.
The Oracle's word
For millions should pass.
Mysis is well parted,
And the pimp carted,
Squire. Midas converted
Into an ass, O the dull ass!
All together, but to several airs, while Midas joins in chorus, braying like an ass.
Into an ass, laugh at the ass!
Into an ass, a real ass!
What a sad ass,
Alas, alas!
Be thou an ass.
Be thou squire—his estate
to Sil.
To thee I translate.
To you his strong chests, wicked mass,
to Daph. & Nysa.
Live happy, while I,
Recall'd to the sky,
Make all the Gods laugh at Midas.
Together, to several airs.
All the Gods laugh at Midas.
Ascends in the Sun.
Alas, Alas!
Exit.
[Goes about braying like an ass]
What a sad pass—Ah, poor Midas.
Chang'd to an ass—Well bray'd Midas.
Well bray'd Midas; manifest ass.
Laugh at the ass; laugh at the ass.
GRAND CHORUS.
Together, with the other nymphs and swains.
To the bright God of day
Let us dance, sing, and play,
Clap hands every lad with his 'lass.
Now criticks lye snug,
Not a hiss, groan, or shrug,
Remember the fate of Midas, Midas,
Remember the fate of Midas.
CHORUS.
Now criticks lye snug, &c.
FINIS.