SCENE III.
[16]The great bell tolls, and the curtain riſing ſlowly to ſolemn muſic, diſcovers a long Gothic aiſle, ſix wings on each ſide, hung with black, and black cur⯑tains falling in drapery from the roof, ornamented with eſcutcheons, banners, enſigns armorial, hel⯑met, creſts, pendants, &c. In the center ſtands a coffin covered with crimſon; a black pall flowing over it, a canopy, plumes, &c. At each wing ſtands a mourner, and at the head of the coffin, choriſters.
FUNERAL DIRGE BY THE CHORISTERS.
A cold and breathleſs corſe, behold, he lies;
His ſpirit fled far, far beyond the ſkies!
See where the plumed ſable hearſe doth ſtand!
Behold the mutes, a penſive, weeping band!
Virtue on earth adorn'd his manly breaſt;
Of fair and manly grace he was poſſeſt.
He knew nor harm nor guile, nor us'd deceit;
He liv'd belov'd, and all his death regret.
The grieving crouds lift up their mournful voice;
None but the Undertaker fell rejoice.
[17] Undertaker.
RECITATIVE.
Fall back, make room there, ſtand aloof,
A light is breaking through the roof.
Was ever ſeen ſo great a wonder?
Look at the joiſts they fly aſunder!
What can it be deſcends in thunder?
Thunder.
MELPOMENE, the TRAGIC MUSE, cloathed in Royal Mourning, deſcends in a Chariot, a dead March playing.
Melpomene.
Fate ſpoke the word, the cruel arrow flew,
And jocund PUNCH lies with the mighty dead!
Oh! what a Phoenix lieth here o'erthrown!
Th' obſerv'd of all obſervers, quite, quite down.
[18]But all muſt die,—
The world's a ſtage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
And what is life?
Life's but a walking ſhadow, a poor player.
Who vainly ſtruts his time upon the ſtage,
And then is heard no more.
Each gay ſcene that riſes on the boſom of the earth
Muſt vaniſh. The cloud-capt towers,
And gorgeous palaces: the ſolemn temples;
The great globe itſelf; yea, all which it inherit
Muſt diſſolve; and, like the baſeleſs
Fabric of a viſion, leave not
A wreck behind!
Soft muſic.
But lo! the Comic Muſe deſcends,
Tear-falling pity ſtarting from her eye;
Pining in thought ſhe comes;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She looks like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
[19]THALIA, the Comic Muſe, deſcends in a Chariot.
Thalia.
What is ſhe, whoſe woe
Bears ſuch an emphaſis? Whoſe phraſe of ſorrow
Conjures the wand'ring ſtars, and makes them ſtand
Like wonder-wounded hearers?
Melpomene.
'Tis I, Melpomene; your ſiſter muſe.
Thalia—this is a ſorry ſight—
Thalia:
Alas, poor PUNCH! I knew him well, Melpo⯑mene. A fellow of infinite jeſts; of moſt excel⯑lent fancy; who held, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to ſhew virtue her own feature, ſcorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and preſſure. He was not one of thoſe robuſtuous, perriwig-pated fellows, who tear [20] a paſſion to very rags, and who, for the moſt part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb ſhew, and noiſe:—He ever ſuited the action to the word, the word to the action:—He was a man of wax, and all he has left behind, are diſhclouts to him. No more like him, than I to Hercules.
Melpomene.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
We ſhall not look upon his like again.
O, what a grace was ſeated on his brow!
Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himſelf!
O, 'twas a brow where honor might be crown'd
Sole monarch of the univerſal earth!
An eye, [...]ike Mars, to threaten and command;
A ſtation [...]ike the herald-Mercury,
New lighted on a heaven-kiſſing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every God did ſeem to ſet his ſeal,
To give the world aſſurance of a Man.—
Com'ſt thou, Thalia, on purpoſe
To attend theſe obſequies?
Thalia.
No other cauſe on earth could bring me down
From mount Parnaſſus; or move me,
[21]Laughter-loving goddeſs, thus to tremble,
Sob, or ſhed a tear; nor ſhake my ſolid virtue
From her point, but PUNCH's death.
O! let us cut him out in little ſtars,
And he will make the face of heaven ſo fine,
That all the world ſhall be in love with night,
And pay no worſhip to the gariſh ſun.
Melpomene.
Oh! it is dark with him!
Here he doth lie upon the wings of night,
Whiter than ſnow upon the raven's back.
Come Death, come grim-look'd Death,
Give me my favorite hero!
DEATH riſes, cloath'd in royal robes, a diadem on his head.
Angels and miniſters of grace defend us!
Be thou a ſpirit of health, or goblin damn'd;
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blaſts from hell;
Be thy intent wicked or charitable;
Altho' thou com'ſt in ſuch a horrid ſhape,
I'll ſpeak to thee.—Say, who art thou,
That thus reviſiteſt the glimpſes of the moon,
[22]Making night hideous? Say, why is this?
Wherefore? What ſhould we do?
Death.
Being immortal, thou haſt never ſeen me.
But ſure this dart, and mark of royal ſovereignty
Upon my brow, ſhould tell you, I am
Th'unerring executioner of Fate.—Firſt born of Sin,
Begot by Satan.
Melpomene.
Alas—alas!
Death.
Your ſorrow's vain.
You cannot free PUNCH from my chains with tears,
And too much grief ſtill ſhews a lack of wit.
I am not to be mov'd.
You may as well go ſtand upon the beach,
And bid the main flood bate its uſual height;
You may as well uſe queſtion with the wolf
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops, and to make no noiſe,
[23]When they are fretted with the guſts of heaven,
As bid me quit my prey. From ev'ry living creature
Life's my due. The fleſh of PUNCH is mine,
And I ſtand here, upon the forfeit
And penalty of my bond.
Thalia.
What baſe, inſatiate monſter can he be?
AIR.
You vile-looking raſcal, how dare you preſume,
Your phiz to intrude, and I in the room,
Quick this inſtant—out of my ſight:
You ill-favour'd dog, muſt I ſpeak in vain;
Sirrah, how dare you here longer remain;
So horrid a figure I never did ſee,
Melpomene tell me who can he be,
With bleach'd bones that look ſo white?
Death.
Ladies,—'tis my opinion you but ſham;
You cannot ſure be ign'rant who I am.
[24]Tipſtaff in chief I ſtand at old Time's forum,
Where I 'tend ſecula ſeculorum,
Regular as juſtice of the quorum.
As for you
(to Thalia)
impudent Miſs Virago,
Know I'm the true mortis imago.
Thalia.
Nay, ſir, in Engliſh we requeſt you'll ſpeak;
Modern muſes know not Latin, no, nor Greek.
Melpomene.
What is't you want, grim ſir, pray let me know?
From this you ſhall not force poor PUNCH to go.
Shall he, of late ſo gay and ſprightly, bow,
To ſuch a bare-bon'd viſage? Who art thou?
Death.
O, don't you ken me? I will tell you then:
'Tis I who conquer all the ſons of men:
No pitch of honor from my dart is free:
My name is Death; have you not heard of me?
Melpomene.
It is in vain; his obdurate heart
Cannot be mov'd. 'Tis more inexorable far
[25]Than roaring lions, or the raging ſea.
But Time will one day trample on your power,
To Death.
And even
Death ſhall die.
Jovial muſic.
Enter Pan.
Pan.
By the law-harry, this is right good fun,
And here comes jolly Bacchus on his tun.
Melpomene is't you? Thalia ſure!
Ladies I'm yours—votre' ſerviteur.
AIR.
Here Bacchus comes,
Here Bacchus comes,
Bacchus with power ſo charming,
To pain and grief
He brings relief,
For ſorrow he cares not a farthing.
Then take the bowl,
Spirit your ſoul,
And pr'ythee leave off your ſighing;
'Twill baniſh care,
Dry up each tear,
To the de'el I bob your crying,
[26] Enter Bacchus riding on a Tun, drawn by Tigers, a large Punch-bowl in his hands.
Bacchus.
Come, drink, my fair one's of the ſky,
Swill deep with me, and ſwill as I;
Pull hearty; grief is always dry.
Here's liquor would inſpire Hector,
Sweeter than celeſtial nectar;
'Tis genuine Antigua rum,
Would make cats ſpeak, or wiſe men dumb.
Tho' you've the body;
(To Death.)
in this bowl,
I have ſecur'd friend PUNCH's ſoul.
AIR.
Come, my bonny buxom laſſes,
Here's a mixture pure divine;
Swig like me from copious glaſſes,
Till like mine your noſes ſhine.
Drinks.
[27]Ruddy are my flaming features,
Boozing makes good humor glow;
Here's to love, my charming creatures,
Love and drink together flow.
Drinks.
Melpomene.
I think I'll take a very little ſup;
Here, Bacchus, pour it in my poiſon cup.
Good liquor always drowns vexation:—
PUNCH, here's a draught to your tranſlation.
Drinks.
Thalia.
No pippin-ſqueezer I, but will drink free
As any lady of the Coterie;
Whether plain brandy, wine, or
ratifia. Drink.
Pan.
Well pull'd, by Jove—no flincher is Thalia.
Zounds, ſh'as a ſwallow equal to Goliah.
Melpomene.
My head grows giddy
(hiccups.)
I ſtand in amaze:
(hic)
Nay, miſs Thalia—mem—
(hiccups.)
you need not gaze—
Thalia.
[28]You crying—
(hiccups)
whining crocodile— you punk—
Demme—demme—but—I—be—lieve you're drunk—
What care I—madam—for all your driv'ling.
Get out of this—
(hiccups)
or elſe leave off— your ſniv'ling.
Melpomene.
By you, pert madam—I won't be rated;
I ſay, you lie—I'm not in—tox—i—cated.
Tho' I was always 'ſteem'd an honeſt fellow,
Yet, at this juncture, I am—but mellow.
If you dare meet me fair at fiſty blows,
I'll ſtill make flatter, mem, your ſnubby noſe.
True—I am ſomewhat drowſy grown with weep⯑ing,
But that at all times I can cure—with ſleeping.
Sleeps.
Thalia.
I'm too inclin'd to nap—farewell good Pan—
Bacchus, bon ſoir—we'll yet have t'other cann.
Sleeps.
Undertaker.
[29]RECITATIVE.
Lift up this ſon of joy and mirth,
And lay him with his mother earth;
Forth from his fleſh may vi'lets ſpring:
Now let the church-bell once more ring.
Bell tolls.
Soft Muſic.
Bacchus.
Hark! I hear ſoft muſic play:
And lo! Apollo hies away.
APOLLO deſcends in a Chariot, drawn by Pegaſus.
Apollo.
O ſtop your hand, you raſh, you fooliſh aſs,
I am come down from mount Parnaſs'.
The ſiſter muſes of the azure ſky,
Sent me, as Plenipo, in their Dilly.
Drawn by Pegaſus, their fav'rite ſteed,
Becauſe their orders needed ſpecial ſpeed.
[30]At firſt a ſeat I did intend to try
In the new ſet-up Literary Fly:
But there I found ſo many fools had places,
Their weight, I fear'd, would quickly crack the traces.
O, heavens! in what wretched plight I ſee,
Divine Thalia, and Melpomene!
Sure they're not ſunk into ebriety!
Bacchus.
The nymphs did take a gulp too much, or ſo,
Which ſeiz'd upon their craniums mal à-propos.
But friend Apollo, do not fume nor fret,
Tipling's a common breach of etiquette.
AIR.
I my art have here been trying,
As I found them weeping, crying,
Moralizing, ſobbing, ſighing,
Wailing with ſad ſound, Sir—
At their lips I plied my bowl,
To exhilarate the ſoul,
But the damſels drank ſo foul,
They fell upon the ground, Sir.
Apollo.
[31]Now, indeed, may Genius mourn and weep,
Since Tragedy and Comedy both ſleep;
Since dulneſs has beſotted the two wenches,
No wonder actors play to empty benches.
Art thou here, Maſter Death?—Bon jour, bon jour—
I am ſent down from Heav'n PUNCH to cure.
Death.
Thou know'ſt Apollo, all that live muſt die,
Paſſing thro' Nature to Eternity.
Are you to make this man a deity?
Well, I won't budge till you your power try.
Apollo.
Are you ignorant, good man Death, that I am the god of medicine, and keeper of the Prome⯑thean fire; that Eſculapius was my pupil, and that the College of Phyſicians are my diſciples?
Death.
[32]Since that is the caſe, friend Apollo, I ſhall wave my claim to Maſter PUNCH, and will not quarrel for a ſingle life, or ſo. I am under very particular obligations to the College of Phyſicians. Neither the Penal laws of England, the Inquiſition of Spain, or Religious Perſecution, ſend ſo many ſub⯑jects to my realm, as the Gentlemen of the Facul⯑ty.
Apollo.
You do not mean regular bred Doctors, I hope. You muſt be ſpeaking of Quacks and Mountebanks.
Death.
Pardonnez moi;—I am ſpeaking of your follow⯑ers of Galen, Hippocrates, Albumazar, and Para⯑celſus, who kill by regimen, and the golden rule of of phyſic. Readers of Greek and Latin, who come commiſſioned with diplomas from the Uni⯑verſities. Doctors are my Recruiting Serjeants; [33] Apothecaries my Corporals; and Chymiſts my Muſter-maſters. As to Quacks, they are my Swiſs auxiliaries; every pill they adminiſter has the effect of a bullet; and they do me as much ſervice as ſtorms and earthquakes.
Apollo.
RECITATIVE.
What ho! what ho! thou mighty genius, ho!
Lieſt thou here, like dormouſe, ſilent, low.
Ariſe, ariſe, awake;
Death's leaden ſlumbers from thy eye-lids ſhake.
AIR.
Thou nonpareil, ariſe, ariſe,
Apollo comes to ope thy eyes;
Sam Foote deſcending,
This way is bending,
And will translate his ſon divine.
Thou nonpareil, ariſe, ariſe,
Apollo comes to ope thy eyes;
Death's pow'r ſubduing,
And life renewing,
Round you my beams ſhall glorious ſhine.
[34]Thou nonpareil, ariſe, ariſe,
Apollo comes to ope thy eyes.
Death.
Your incantation, Apollo, works but ſlowly.
You had beſt ſend to the Society for Recovering
Drowned Perſons, and borrow their apparatus,
to ſet your patient's lungs in motion.
Apollo.
You tipſtaff, Death, about your bus'neſs hie;
I bring from Jove a noli proſequi.
For PUNCH's body Jupiter thought fit,
To ſend by me his habeas corpus writ:
Anſwer me—Do you traverſe, or ſubmit?
Shake not your head,—avaunt, and quit my ſight!
For Jove decrees that PUNCH ſhall come to light.
Death.
Sir Pol, you need ſo ſeverely ſnub,
Or, for a trifle, kick up a hubbub.
[35]Pray don't inſiſt upon it I ſhould go,
But let me ſtay and ſee the Raree-ſhew.
The coffin falls aſunder, and diſcovers Punch.
Punch.
RECITATIVE.
What pow'r art thou, who from Death's bed,
Doth make me riſe right willingly my head?
Odzounds, I find myſelf as cold as lead.
Punch riſes.
AIR.
Come leave off your ſtroaking me,
And don't be joaking me,
If't pleaſe your worſhip, Apollo, Apollo.
You ſee by my hunch, Sir,
I'm plain Mr. PUNCH, Sir,
Then what has produc'd all this hallo, this hallo!
Say, ſay, what's the matter?
D' ye mean it for Satire?
[36]O you're worſe than the public papers, the papers;
You'll the Nobles provoke,
If you keep up the joke,
For me but a cutter of capers, of capers.
Apollo.
Ladies ariſe, get up, for ſhame awake,
And Somnus from your drowſy ſenſes ſhake.
RECITATIVE.
Down on your marrow-bones, PUNCH, bend,—
Ariſtophanes doth deſcend;
And you dumb blacks with mournful face,
Inſtantly quit this joyful place.
Exeunt Mourners.
Bacchus.
For my part, Pol, I am engaged to hunt.
On, Maſter Pan,—you and I'll exeunt.
Exeunt Bacchus and Pan.
Thalia.
[37]Far hence what e'er can agonize the ſoul,
Grief, terror, rage, dagger, and poiſon'd bowl:
The Comic Muſe, free, gay, propitious pow'r,
To dimpled laughter gives the mirthful hour.
AIR.
Let joy and laughter take their round,
Briſk jollity come ſmiling;
Elate your heart with muſic's ſound,
The tedious hours beguiling.
Let's merry be, keep revelry,
Nor care for grief nor ſorrow,
But take a glaſs, and hang the aſs,
Who's thinking for to-morrow.
CHORUS.
Let's merry be, keep revelry,
Nor care for grief nor ſorrow,
But take a glaſs, and hang the aſs,
Who's thinking for to-morrow.
Melpomene.
[38]What ſays grim Death?—Will you with us be merry?
Death.
No, thank you, I'm engag'd at Pondicherry.
There I have Frenchmen lying dead in groſs;
The Engliſhmen have giv'n them coup-de-grace.
Adieu—I muſt fly off to 'tend the war;
The Eaſt wind blows—I ſnuff the carrion from afar.
Death flies off.
Martial muſic, clouds deſcend, with a figure of the late Samuel Foote, of ſatirical memory, ſur⯑rounded by emblems of Satire, encloſed in a wreath ef thiſtles and nettles, dreſſed in the character ef Aſmodeus, in the Devil upon Two Sticks.
Melpomene.
PUNCH, let me lead you to your chair,
Of Parnaſſus you're dubb'd Sub-May'r.
[39]With my right hand I take you as my own,
To place you on your glorious well-earn'd throne;
Under the man, who often, with ſhrewd tricks,
Was us'd to play the Devil —on Two Sticks.
Thalia.
And to me give your other hand.
Here, mighty PUNCH, you're to command,
As Locum Tenens to Apollo.
Huzza, huzza, let us all hallo.
All huzza.
Punch.
Such politeneſs I never ſaw.
Ladies you're true Je-ne-ſcai-quoi,
A-la-mode Francois—Débonnaire,
And fit my humour to a hair.
Hail, ye Goddeſſes divine,
Take theſe ſimple thanks of mine.
Oft before my life was ended,
'Twixt you I have ſtood ſuſpended,
[40]Like a Peer's arms, with beaſt ſupporters,
Or drunken man held up by porters.
Melpomene, if't pleaſe you, I would fain,
Take juſt one peep at poor old Drury-Lane.
Apollo.
No PUNCH, at Parnaſſus you're wanted;
That is a favour cannot be granted.
But nothing in the power of the Muſe,
That PUNCH can wiſh to aſk, will ſhe refuſe.
Punch.
Then tell me, Muſes, what is the reaſon,
That you have both in the playing ſeaſon,
Left the Theatres without protection?
Is it the effect of new direction?
I never did approve the Partnerſhip;
And fear the Stage, and Managers—will trip.
Melpomene.
My good friend PUNCH, you muſt not be ſur⯑priz'd;
For know the Drama is monopoliz'd.
[41]Poets of merit now are all adrift,
My fav'rite ſons are put to their laſt ſhift:
No piece permitted on the ſtage t'appear,
But what's receiv'd through intereſt or fear.
From Covent-Garden Theatre I fled,
Sca [...]'d by the bombaſt ſuſtian of—Buthred.
And from Old Drury I was forc'd to fly,
By an inhuman—Law of Lombardy.
Nor had poor Comedy a better fate;
She too was forc'd to quit her ancient ſeat:
Her works cut up to anſwer ſing-ſong rhymes,
For Preludes, and for Speaking Pantomimes.
Congreve and Farquhar now in vain we ſeek;
Inſtead of them, we ſee — the Devil's Peak.
But come, good PUNCH, you now with us muſt riſe,
A Power immortal, to the higheſt ſkies.
Apollo.
AIR.
All ſhall yield to this great prodigy,
All ſhall yield to this great prodigy;
None like thee, O PUNCH, can be;
None like thee, O PUNCH, can be;
[42]Matchleſs was he, we ne'er ſhall ſee
The like again of immortal he.
The like again of immortal he.
The clouds aſcend. The mourners enter and ſing the words of the above Air in chorus.
Exeunt.
FINIS.
