Classic Poem

OR, THE BRITISH WORTHY

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON

Sure there 's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
When silly plays so savorly go down;
As, when clipp'd money passes, 't is a sign
A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
Happy is he who, in his own defense,
Can write just level to your humble sense:
Who higher than your pitch can never go;
And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.
So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,
A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board;
He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,
Secur'd by weakness not to reach the box.
A feeble poet will his bus'ness do,
Who, straining all he can, comes up to you;
For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.
An ape his own dear image will embrace;
An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:
So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature,
Are led, by kind, t' admire your fellow creature.
In fear of which, our house has sent this day,
T'insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play;
No sooner nam'd, than one cries out: " These stagers
Come in good time, to make more work for wagers. "
The town divides, if it will take or no;
The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too;
A sign they have but little else to do.
Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,
Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:
But now they're grown a common trade for all,
And actions by the news-book rise and fall;
Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wagerhall.
One policy as far as Lyons carries;
Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.
Our bets, at last, would ev'n to Rome extend,
But that the Pope has prov'd our trusty friend.
Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,
Could we insure another Ottobuoni.
Among the rest there are a sharping set,
That pray for us, and yet against us bet.
Sure Heav'n itself is at a loss to know
If these would have their pray'rs be heard, or no:
For in great stakes, we piously suppose,
Men pray but very faintly they may lose.
Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,
The city needs not your new tricks for breaking:
And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,
You 'll want an equipage for volunteering;
While thus, no spark of honor left within ye,
When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE

I' VE had to-day a dozen billets-doux
From fops, and wits, and cits, and Bow Street beaux;
Some from Whitehall, but from the Temple more:
A Covent Garden porter brought me four.
I have not yet read all; but, without feigning,
We maids can make shrewd guesses at your meaning.
What if, to shew your styles, I read 'em here?
Methinks I hear one cry: " O Lord, forbear!
No, madam, no; by Heav'n, that's too severe. "
Well then, be safe —
But swear henceforwards to renounce all writing,
And take this solemn oath of my inditing,
As you love ease, and hate campaigns and fighting.
Yet, faith, 't is just to make some few examples:
What if I shew'd you one or two for samples?
( Pulls one out. ) Here's one desires my ladyship to meet
At the kind couch above in Bridges Street.
O sharping knave! that would have you know what,
For a poor sneaking treat of chocolate.
( Pulls out another. ) Now, in the name of luck, I'll break this open,
Because I dreamt last night I had a token:
The superscription is exceeding pretty:
To the desire of all the town and city.
Now, gallants, you must know, this precious fop
Is foreman of a haberdasher's shop:
One who devoutly cheats, demure in carriage,
And courts me to the holy bands of marriage;
But with a civil innuendo too,
My overplus of love shall be for you.
( Reads. ) " Madam, I swear your looks are so divine,
When I set up, your face shall be my sign:
Tho' times are hard, to shew how I adore you,
Here's my whole heart, and half a guinea for you.
But have a care of beaux ; they 're false, my honey;
And, which is worse, have not one rag of money. "
See how maliciously the rogue would wrong ye!
But I know better things of some among ye.
My wisest way will be to keep the stage,
And trust to the good nature of the age;
And he that likes the music and the play
Shall be my favorite gallant to-day.

SONGS

I

SONG OF TRIUMPH OF THE BRITONS

" C OME if you dare, " our trumpets sound;
" Come if you dare, " the foes rebound:
" We come, we come, we come, we come, "
Says the double, double, double beat of the thund'ring drum.

Now they charge on amain,
Now they rally again:
The gods from above the mad labor behold,
And pity mankind that will perish for gold.

The fainting Saxons quit their ground;
Their trumpets languish in the sound;
They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly:
" Victoria, Victoria! " the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory's won,
To the plunder we run:
We return to our lasses like fortunate traders,
Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'd invaders.

II

SONG

Man sings. O SIGHT , the mother of desires,
What charming objects dost thou yield!
'T is sweet, when tedious night expires,
To see the rosy morning gild
The mountain-tops, and paint the field!
But when Clorinda comes in sight,
She makes the summer's day more bright;
And when she goes away, 't is night.
Chorus. When fair Clorinda comes in sight, &c.

Woman sings. 'T is sweet the blushing morn to view;
And plains adorn'd with pearly dew;
But such cheap delights to see,
Heaven and nature
Give each creature;
They have eyes, as well as we;
This is the joy, all joys above,
To see, to see,
That only she,
That only she we love!
Chorus. This is the joy, all joys above, &c.

Man sings. And, if we may discover,
What charms both nymph and lover,
'T is when the fair at mercy lies,
With kind and amorous anguish,
To sigh, to look, to languish,
On each other's eyes.
And, if we may discover, &c.

III

SONG

I

How happy the lover,
How easy his chain,
How pleasing his pain,
How sweet to discover,
He sighs not in vain!
For love every creature
Is form'd by his nature;
No joys are above
The pleasures of love.

II

In vain are our graces,
In vain are your eyes,
If love you despise;
When age furrows faces,
'T is time to be wise.
Then use the short blessing
That flies in possessing:
No joys are above
The pleasures of love.

IV

HARVEST SONG

Comus. Y OUR hay it is mow'd, and your corn is reap'd;
Your barns will be full, and your hovels heap'd:
Come, my boys, come;
Come, my boys, come;
And merrily roar out harvest-home;
Harvest-home,
Harvest-home;
And merrily roar out harvest-home.
Chorus. Come, my boys, come, &c.

First Man. We ha' cheated the parson, we 'll cheat him again,
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?
One in ten,
One in ten;
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?
Chorus. One in ten,
One in ten;
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?
Second Man. For prating so long like a book-learn'd sot,
Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot;
Burn to pot,
Burn to pot;
Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot.
Chorus. Burn to pot, &c.

Third Man. We 'll toss off our ale till we canno' stand,
And hoigh for the honor of old England;
Old England,
Old England;
And hoigh for the honor of old England.
Chorus. Old England, &c.

V

SONG SUNG BY VENUS IN HONOR OF BRITANNIA

I

F AIREST isle, all isles excelling,
Seat of pleasures and of loves;
Venus here will choose her dwelling,
And forsake her Cyprian groves.

II

Cupid from his fav'rite nation
Care and envy will remove;
Jealousy, that poisons passion,
And despair, that dies for love.

III

Gentle murmurs, sweet complaining,
Sighs that blow the fire of love;
Soft repulses, kind disdaining,
Shall be all the pains you prove.

IV

Every swain shall pay his duty,
Grateful every nymph shall prove;
And as these excel in beauty,
Those shall be renown'd for love.

VI

SONG

I

She. Y OU say 'tis love creates the pain
Of which so sadly you complain,
And yet would fain engage my heart
In that uneasy cruel part:
But how, alas, think you that I
Can bear the wound of which you die?

II

He. 'T is not my passion makes my care,
But your indiff'rence gives despair;
The lusty sun begets no spring,
Till gentle show'rs assistance bring:
So love that scorches and destroys,
Till kindness aids, can cause no joys.

III

She. Love has a thousand ways to please,
But more to rob us of our ease:
For wakeful nights and careful days
Some hours of pleasure he repays;
But absence soon, or jealous fears,
O'erflow the joys with floods of tears.

IV

He. By vain and senseless forms betray'd,
Harmless love 's th' offender made,
While we no other pains endure,
Than those that we ourselves procure:
But one soft moment makes amends
For all the torment that attends.

V

Chorus of Both. Let us love, let us love, and to happiness haste;
Age and wisdom come too fast:
Youth for loving was design'd.
He alone. I'll be constant, you be kind.
She alone. You be constant, I'll be kind.
Both. Heav'n can give no greater blessing
Than faithful love, and kind possessing.