  The scene changes to a large dining room. The table furnished with bowls, bottles, glasses, and cards.——The Group appear sitting round in a restless attitude. In one corner of the room is discovered a small cabinet of books, for the use of the studious and contemplative; containing, Hobbs's Leviathan, Sipthorp's Sermons, Hutchinson's History, Fable of the Bees, Philalethes on Philanthropy, with an appendix by Massachusettensis, Hoyl on Whist, Lives of the Stuarts, Statutes of Henry the Eighth, and William the Conqueror, Wedderburne's speeches, and acts of Parliament, for 1774. Scene I. Hateall, Hazlerod, Monsieur, Beau Trumps, Simple, Humbug, Sir Sparrow, &c., &c. Scriblerius. ——Thy toast, Monsieur, Pray, why that solemn phiz:— Art thou, too, balancing 'twixt right and wrong? Thy present good, for promise in reversion? 'Tis true hereafter has some feeble terrors, But ere our grizzly heads are wrapt in clay We may compound, and make our peace with Heav'n. Monsieur. Could I give up the dread of retribution, The awful reck'ning of some future day, Like surly Hateall I might curse mankind, And dare the threat'ned vengeance of the skies. Or like yon apostate—— [PointingtoHazlerod,retiredtoacorner toreadMassachusettensis. Feel but slight remorseTo sell my country for a grasp of gold. But the impressions of my early youth, Infix'd by precepts of my pious sire, Are stings and scorpions in my goaded breast; Oft have I hung upon my parent's knee And heard him tell of his escape from France; He left the land of slaves, and wooden shoes; From place to place he sought a safe retreat, Till fair Bostonia stretch'd her friendly arm And gave the refugee both bread and peace: (Shall I ungrateful 'rase the sacred bonds, And help to clank the tyrant's iron chains O'er these blest shores—once the sure asylum From all the ills of arbitrary sway?) With his expiring breath he bade his sons, If e'er oppression reach'd the western world, Resist its force, and break the servile yoke. Scriblerius. Well quit thy post;——Go make thy flatt'ring court To Freedom's Sons and tell thy baby fears; Shew the foot traces in thy puny heart, Made by the trembling tongue and quiv'ring lip Of an old grandsire's superstitious whims. Monsieur. No,——I never can—— So great the itch I feel for titl'd place, Some honorary post, some small distinction, To save my name from dark oblivion's jaws, I'll hazard all, but ne'er give up my place, For that I'll see Rome's ancient rites restor'd, And flame and faggot blaze in ev'ry street. Beau Trumps. ——That's right, Monsieur, There's nought on earth that has such tempting charms As rank and show, and pomp, and glitt'ring dress, Save the dear counters at belov'd Quadril, Viner unsoil'd, and Littleton, may sleep, And Coke lie mould'ring on the dusty shelf, If I by shuffling draw some lucky card That wins the livres, or lucrative place. Hum Humbug. When sly Rapatio shew'd his friends the scroll, I wonder'd much to see thy patriot name Among the list of rebels to the state, I thought thee one of Rusticus's sworn friends. Beau Trumps. When first I enter'd on the public stage My country groan'd beneath base Brundo's hand, Virtue look'd fair and beckon'd to her lure, Thro' truth's bright mirror I beheld her charms And wish'd to tread the patriotic path And wear the laurels that adorn his fame; I walk'd a while and tasted solid peace With Cassius, Rusticus, and good Hortensius, And many more, whose names will be rever'd When you, and I, and all the venal herd, Weigh'd in Nemesis, just impartial scale, Are mark'd with infamy, till time blot out And in oblivion sink our hated names. But 'twas a poor unprofitable path, No pensions, place or title there I found; I saw Rapatio's arts had struck so deep And giv'n his country such a fatal wound, None but his foes promotion could expect; I trim'd, and pimp'd, and veer'd, and wav'ring stood, But half resolv'd to shew myself a knave, Till the Arch Traitor prowling round for aid Saw my suspense and bade me doubt no more;— He gently bow'd, and smiling took my hand, And whispering softly in my list'ning ear, Shew'd me my name among his chosen band, And laugh'd at virtue dignifi'd by fools, Clear'd all my doubts, and bade me persevere In spite of the restraints, or hourly checks Of wounded friendship, and a goaded mind, Or all the sacred ties of truth and honour. Collateralis. Come, 'mongst ourselves we'll e'en speak out the truth. Can you suppose there yet is such a dupe As still believes that wretch an honest man? The later strokes of his serpentine brain Outvie the arts of Machiavel himself, His Borgian model here is realiz'd And the stale tricks of politicians play'd Beneath a vizard fair—— ——Drawn from the heav'nly form Of blest religion weeping o'er the land For virtue fall'n, and for freedom lost. Beau Trumps. Hum Humbug. Why so severe, or why exclaim at all, Against the man who made thee what thou art? Beau Trumps. I know his guilt,—I ever knew the man, Thy father knew him e'er we trod the stage; I only speak to such as know him well; Abroad I tell the world he is a saint, But as for int'rest I betray'd my own With the same views, I rank'd among his friends: But my ambition sighs for something more. What merits has Sir Sparrow of his own, And yet a feather graces the fool's cap: Which did he wear for what himself achiev'd, 'Twould stamp some honour on his latest heir—— But I'll suspend my murm'ring care awhile; Come, t' other glass——and try our luck at Loo, And if before the dawn your gold I win, Or e'er bright Phoebus does his course begin, The eastern breeze from Britain's hostile shore Whose waving pendants sweep the wat'ry main, Dip their proud beaks and dance towards the plain, The destin'd plains of slaughter and distress, Laden with troops from Hanover and Hess, It would invigorate my sinking soul, For then the continent we might control; Not all the millions that she vainly boasts Can cope with Veteran Barbarian hosts;—— But the brave sons of Albion's warlike race, Their arms, and honours, never can disgrace, Or draw their swords in such a hated cause, In blood to seal a N——'s oppressive laws, They'll spurn the service;——Britons must recoil, And shew themselves the natives of an isle Who sought for freedom, in the worst of times Produc'd her Hampdens, Fairfaxes, and Pyms. But if by carnage we should win the game, Perhaps by my abilities and fame: I might attain a splendid glitt'ring car, And mount aloft, and sail in liquid air. Like PhaËton, I'd then out-strip the wind, And leave my low competitors behind. Finis. |
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