ACT I. SCENE I.

The Curtain riſing, diſcovers a Splendid Pavilion in the Clouds; JUNO, PALLAS, and VENUS at a Card-Table playing at Tredrille, on one Side a Table, with Goblets, &c. IRIS, in Waiting, During a Symphony, VENUS ſhuffles and deals. PALLAS frets at her bad Cards.

Hang cards!

You're out o' luck!

As I'm a ſinner!

I haven't—ſince laſt Chriſtmas—ris'n a winner.

That's hard!—So bad a run may well chagrin one:

Venus is quite a dab.

Dab!—She's—a keen one; At all games—plays th' whole game.

Aye, aye!

Match none has; For ſleight of hand,—will ſlip an ace—with Jonas.

Gambles deep too!

Well may—who never loſes: At Putt, poor girls!—ſh' as beggar'd the Nine Muſes;

Fine as a Queen o' ginger-bread—parades it;

But ne'er has paid the wages of her Maids yet.

Like enough—for the Graces,—and 'tis ſcandalous,

Go mother-naked.

Skin-flint!—ſo to randle us! 'Twould vex a ſaint.—

Nay,—Pallas!

Miſs,—you're—funny, Poor dear!—has't loſt it' temper with it' money? ha! ha! ha!

Pert chitty face! 'cauſe leud fops call you—pretty;

You fancy thoſe—patch-clenches—ſmart—and witty.

Pretty!—the fools!—do they, indeed?—Ah, tell us.

Conceited moppet!

Sure, Miſs,—you a'n't jealous.

Don't rouze me, Bold-face!—if your tongue's ſo flippant, I'll take y' a chuck—as ſhall chop off the tip on't.

I'll ſwear the peace:—keep at arms-length, Virago!

She'll brain me, Mâm!

—Well, had I don't long a-go.

Your tongue's no ſlan⯑der—for that, not a button

Care I;—but I can't ſtand your fiſt o' mutton.

Nuts to me, This—I hope, 'twill be a ſcuffle;

My ſtars! what was't cou'd thus your tempers ruffle?

Her gibes,

Her rants.

Don't ſnouch then!

Don't you hector!

Faults on both ſides—ſit down—come, I'll direct here.

And Iris!—ſtir, wench!—fill about the nectar.

your quips would Patient Griſel canker,

Howe'er, ſhake hands!

Here, Miſs, I bear no rancour.

By Jingo! if Erynnis—from the Heſpe⯑rides,

Steals me the Dragon's Apple-we'll ha'merry days. Augh!—ho!—oa!—

Court's grown damn'd hum-drum:—Jove, poor Noodle!

Does nought but muddle.—

Juno too—turn'd ſo—mim, forſooth, Butter will ſcarce melt in her mouth.

But th' Apple—yes—I'll throw—that ſquib among 'em—

Shall ſtir the humours—as a waſp had ſtung 'em,

Here, Momus, 'tis—at laſt;—I'm all o'er dripping.

Good Hag!—Now quick, to Juno's pa⯑lace tripping,

Amongſt the three Sultanas drop this Pippin.

That Dragon! Oh! we've had a-do moſt helliſh,

Burn him!—for Pippins he has ſpoil'd my re⯑liſh.

No fear;—I'll fool him with ſome rig⯑ma-rol,—

Pat on his back, and ſcratch his pol.—

But I—(in terror)

You—muſt plump down to Hell,—to Pluto;

I've writ a card to him.—

Any where,—in tuto.

Off! off!

Ha,—my old friend!—how is't?

Saw you that Beldam Erynnis ſcamper by?

Faith, Sir,—ſhe—ſeldom Viſits theſe parts:—yet paſs'd—within this half-hour,

Hobbling—to Juno,—with ſome fruit—you—gave her.

She lies,—ſhe ſtole it;—Gave! give her a halter!

Her due,—The thief!—

Stole! ay, an old defaulter.—

[11] Sue out a warrant—

Sue!—the Queen has got it,—I may go whiſtle—Piqued,—Repiqued,—Ca⯑potted!—

Pluck up,—talk big to her,—

I'll egg on this hot-head.

High time, Miſs Lazyboots! where ha' you been lolloping?

Sure, Mem—at the firſt tinkle—I came galloping.

Who rapp'd?

Beau Cupid, Mêm, aſk'd for Miſs Pallas.

For me? the Whelp!—I'd ſee him to the Gallows.

Gallows! Mâm.

Ay—'twill be his prank concluſive, As he goes on.

Mâm—ſhe's downright abuſive.

I'd mince the blinkard—to a ſalmagondi.

Oh! Mêm!

Are you bewitch'd, Girl?—What has ſtunn'd ye?

Haſt ſeen a Ghoſt—

Worſe, Mêm—that hag—Erynnis.

Got in, d'ye ſay?—I wou'dn't for five guineas—

In troth, I think, that Witch the Devil-in-is.

With your leave, Mâm—

Suppoſe that three ſhares equal We make—

Oh—that—Erynnis might—not take well.

Bleſs us!—'t has grown—with an Inſcription on it.

Have the ſnails trac'd a tag of ſome—French ſonnet?

Nah, Miſs; plain Engliſh—and to Me directed.

(inſulting) A wind-fall, Ladies!—yet—one can't reject it.

So, poz—I will not have—my goods triſected.

Yours!

Yours!

Mine.

By what right?

What title?—Fool-y'!

What—when ye hear—will make you both look bluely.

Stand clear, Mâm—let me to her—(to Venus) Shut your fly-trap, Your title I'll ſoon quaſh elſe—with a tight rap,

I bar blows—yet that Fruit I'll have,—depend on't;

'Tis mine,

ſo, give it me—and there's an end on't.

Nay, Madam!—Sure—my claim's the more undoubted;

So (to Venus) give it me—and ſay no more about it.

Ladies, for Pow'r, Arms, Arts, I don't diſpute ye,

But—all the world (bridling) gives me the crack for Beauty.

You Trapes!

You Demi-rep! you hatter'd Dowdy, Nam'd of a day with us—you're—

Oh! No-body.

Two to one's odds;—but La⯑dies,—ſince you crow ſo,

Let Jove judge.

Done!

Done!

He's a Virtuoſo

In female matters.

Is he?

Troth—but ſo, ſo.

Hark y' me, Dragon! you're a ſaucy fellor!

I'll have ye kick'd down ſtairs.

Vap'ring Ale-ſwiller!

Tip him Meduſa's Muz!

Hand here my Aegis!

Boh!—I'll indict you all—in Banco Regis.

An' if you go to that—you pert Intruder! By whoſe authority are you thus rude here?

Don Jove, our thunder-thumping Caliph, From doze at Council-Board, Upſtarting with a bounce, Rapp'd out,—Coxnouns! Call me my Bailiff! Scud, Hermes!—fetch me word, Is Billingſgate transferr'd To Juno's Malepardus?—By the Lord, Her Goſſips Throats had need be of Bull-leather.

Tell 'em—I'll come—and tole their Jolls together.

ACT II.

AH, ah!—in Crib, Sir Drag.?

Now, bail me, Momus!

I'd ſee you hang'd firſt.

Get along,—and be Curſt!—Why did I truſt a Courtier's Promiſe?

Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!

Three Cats—I left 'em at it,—ſpitting, —ſcratch⯑ing,

(Seeing Jupiter) Gadſo!

Now, What can that wiſe Nob be hatching?

How ſhall I get this tangled hank un⯑ravell'd?

Put to my trumps, and gravell'd!

'Twou'd dumb found, Wizard, Merlin, or Friar Bacon;

Aye, all the Square-caps from Oxford to Pekin.

No making head or tail on't—which way ſo⯑e'er I turn it—

If I know how to act—I'm a ſous'd gurnet.

Ha! that Firebrand Erynnis! (Cou'd I but trap her, With what good will I'd ſtrap her!)

I'll be hang'd, but 'twas ſhe that kick'd this duſt up,

None but ſhe—miſchief-maker! (The Devil take her!)

Amongſt my proud leaſh of Ninnies.

[27] But—I—for her provide will; Yes—I'll have her fairly truſs'd up, Tho' the old Trot ſhou'd mount for't, Who can call me to account for't?

Or, if not ſtrung—ſhe ſhall—mill-doll—in Bridewell.

That's fix'd then.

Yes, yes—I've wound up my bottom.

Roundly; like a true Solomon—

of Gotham.

But how to ſtill their clamours—there's the matter.

Depute ſome Mortal for their Arbitrator; 'Twill pull 'em down a peg.

'Twill, 'twill—the ſluts!

I'll do't—to fiddle-ſtrings 'twill fret their guts.

Oh! they'll cajole you with their Ifs and Buts.

Didn't they coax you in your beer to impris'n The Dragon but for claiming what was his'n?

I was a green-horn then—no pene⯑tration—

But now I'm come to years—

Not—of diſcretion.—

Moſt Doughty—pleaſe edge this way.

Eh! what mutter y'?

The Goddeſſes—at loggerheads—i' th' Buttery.

Fight dog, fight bear—I?—Blood I I've other bus'neſs:

Muſt Jove fit Judge—on Dimples—Snouts—and Pigſnies?

Bid 'em ſcrub up as clean as hands can make 'em.

Shou'd they run ruſt—

By Jericho!—I'd flake 'em.—

(to Mercury) Conduct them, you, to Ida—There young Paris

Shall view, and there give Judgment, which moſt fair is.

What?—Paris of Troy, That Hobble-de-Hoy, He Lord Chief Juſtice conſtituted! If h'as guts in his brains, or in's ſkull eyes. Sure, ſure, this Heav'n-embroiling Prize Cannot be long diſputed.

What comes o'you?

Oh! I—after the Inſpection—

May call—to hear—which carry'd the Election.

Mum!—yonder's Juno— (going)

Aye,—my Meſſage—ſnubs.

Now—keep it up—be ſure—a few dry rubs

Will give her Majeſty—the Mulligrubs.

How now, Dame Partlet?—

Now—ſhe opes her Budget.

So, Sir! Our cauſe—you ſcorn, it ſeems,—to judge it.

I waſh my hands o't:—woundy tickliſh Matters

Theſe!—How decree—'twixt my own Wife and Daughters?

Then, Sir, who ſhall?

Why,—Paris,—Son of Priam,—

Genimede's Coz—a better Judge than I am.

Finely fobb'd off! Had it been Madam Semele—

Juno,—go, ſcold your Maids;—do—mind your Family.

No, with all Heav'n for my due I'd grapple.

Were there an Orchard; mine were every Apple.

Right!—Stuff!—between us, None has a legal right to it, but Venus.

Fool that I was, my Huſband to refer to!

—a ſneaking kindneſs—Goat!—for Her too?—

My Daughter?

Wert your Mother?

Why my Pet Lamb Ought not go looſe—It ſhould be lodg'd in Bed⯑lam.

Theſe Maggots, Child—

By each new Trull ſup⯑planted!

I'll be divorc'd—

The very Thing I wanted.

ACT III.

JUPITER and MOMUS.

I Met 'em—Frieſland hens! their fea⯑thers bruſtling

All the wrong way.

That's what they get by buſtling On the High-horſe with Me—

Poor Venus ſaid nought.

True——But—for my Jezebel, and yond' Miſs Dread⯑nought—

C'eſt quelque choſe cela—no more a Ruſtick ſcrubbiſh,

Paris at Court has duſted off his Rubbiſh.

But whence—and whither now?

My Errand At preſent is—

To me—I warrant.

E'en ſo.

With my poor perſon ſmitten?

No, Sir—a matter—You'd ſcarce hit on.

This Apple—(produces the Golden Apple)

Aye.

(Tho' no nice Fruit 'tis) Has ſet by the ears three tip-top Beauties.

Th' Inſcription—there's the bone—

To THE FAIREST!

'Till that point's ſettled—Heav'n can ne'er reſt.—

Miſs Pallas Venus—ſtiffly

Lay claim to't—

Well—mon cher!

Why, briefly—

You're nam'd their Judge—

A precious bawble To ſet three Goddeſſes—at ſquabble!

But why to me this Beauty-reference?

You, Sir, Jove knows,—can gueſs the difference—

Betwixt—a Nymph—and a Nut-cracker—

Not half ſo well as he,—th'old Smacker!

Him they'd think partial,—intereſted, Therefore in you his Pow'r is veſted.

What Jeopardy?—My Caſe quite deſperate?—

Can pleaſe but one,—two muſt exaſperate!—

Do as you like—but—leave off prat⯑ing.

You keep their Goddeſsſhips a-waiting.

Queen Juno, Sir, (bows) Jove's Con⯑ſort—

Leſs Palaver.

We've other fiſh to fry—(beckons Mercury away; be ſneaks off.

Ma'am,—by your Favour—

Meat for your Lord!—I thought you better knew me.

La fiere!—a three-pil'd Prude, conſume me!

Lad, don't you feel yourſelf, at times, ambitious Of Pow'r—and Wealth?

Ma foi! they're both delicious.

Both you may have—

Comment!

For me paſs Sentence, And you will bleſs your Stars for our Acquaint⯑ance.

Why—faith—She offers-like a Bid⯑der.

Nabob!—Bon ça!—let me—conſider: Bengal—a damn'd—long—voyage thither.

Now un grand Coup—You're warm—and I in Spirits—

'Gad, Ma'am, let's uſe your Huſband as he merits.

Indeed!—'Squire Hotſpur!—two words to that Bargain.

N'importe—There needs no farther arguing.

To be ſent haggling here with ſuch a Puppy!

Well, Jove, remember this, if I ben't up wi' ye.

Sans ceremonie, I diſmiſs her.

Hey, Mercury!

Fetch in Pallas—

Yes, Sir—

Dans le Bon ton,—hey, derry derry.

Dins le Bon ton,

Sur le Gazon,

Servant, my dear,!—

Since when? Spruce Maſter Jemmy!

That Peg ſhe had from Broughton—demme!

[43] Well, Joan of Arc!—my frumpiſh Miſſy

You might, as well ha' let me kiſs ye.

Paris, no Airs—That Pippin, without muſing,

Adjudge to me—

Bon;—for your Skill in bruiſing.

I'll make your Fortune:—Call me elſe, Canary.

My Fortune, Miſs!—

Ay, in the Milita—ry.

Zauns, Miſs—What ſee you in my Figure, As if I lov'd to draw a Trigger?

Daſtard!—Be henceforth, (ſince you're for that duty)

No Officer of mine.

Ni vous—my Beauty.

Now, Merc'ry!—let the Cyprian Belle come.

Ay this!

And welcome.

My Paris! can you love?

No fooliſh item.

Yes, Ma'am—kind ſouls!—I never ſlight'em.

Well, there's a Judge—one Menelaus—in Sparta;

(A Judge's creſt is—Horns—by Magna Charta)

That Judge, he hath a wife—that Wife hight Nelly,

But ſuch a Nell!—at ev'ry glance

The cockles of your heart would dance,

Warm'd as if by Vermicelli.

Agreed—touchez!—Now for a Barrel Of Golden Pippins—We ſhall never quarrel.

I'll call the Ladies in that went hence.

Mercury!—I'm going to Paſs Sentence.

Buzzard!—in real Beauty, Ignoramus!

That lewd Trull's Perſon was his Fee to bam us.

For this,—an old houſe o'er! your Sconce I'll tumble.

Poltroon!—Since War you dread, its Din ſhall rumble

In both your Ears—

Ladies!—You're not to grumble.—

Ye ſpiteful Jades!—threat not my Puny Judge, elſe

For him I will, myſelf, take up the Cudgels—The proudeſt She that with him dares to meddle, I'll make dance Barnaby—without a Fiddle!

The Dragon!—Dear Papa! have ſome regard on him.

Well mov'd! (nodding to Mercury) Go, ſet the Dragon free—I pardon him.