A SATIRICAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN A
Sea Captain
and his
Friend
in Town: HUMBLY ADDRESS'D To the Gentlemen who
deform'd
the PLAY of OTHELLO, On
Th—rs—y, M—
the
7th,
1750, at the
Th-tre R-y-l,
in
Dr-y L-ne:
TO WHICH IS ADDED, A PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE, Much more suitable to the Occasion than their Own.
Ne Sutor ultra Crepidam.
LONDON: Printed for, and Sold by
J. River,
under St.
Dunstan's Church, Fleet-street.
[Price Sixpence.]
A more suitable, OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE
BY
EBENEAZER PENTWEAZEL.
WHILE
heedless Fops,
affecting to be Sage,
With
awkward Attitudes
Disgrace the
Stage;
Ours
be the Task to Paint the
Simple Elves,
And shew the Race of
Triflers
in
our Selves.
For this unmindful of the
Cynic Tribe,
The
Wrinkled Forehead,
or th'
illnatur'd Gibe;
Dauntless,
We Deign to face th' unruly
Pit
So famed for Clamour, Petulance, and Wit.
Merits
our own,
—from no Peculiar Cause
Therefore be Sure we have—
our own
Applause;
Heedless of what the selfish
Miser
say's,
We venture
Sense
—for
Poverty
and
Praise:
A Thousand Pound's
a trifling Sum for BAYS.
Yet this you'll say is
Wrong,
—we answer, no
'Twas always
Right,
and ever will be So
But Soft! what Noise was that approach'd mine Ear.
Help! Hoa, my friends! my Friends—alas I fear,
Some
Dire Event,
our sad
Presumption waits;
Fly from this
Spot,
and intercept the
Fates:
For Lo! methinks. Descending from on
High
The Ghost of
injur'd
SHAKESPEAR Draweth nigh,
With aspect Stern! behold the BARD advance,
His Eyes, Resentment's fiercer Rays elance;
Justice
before him wields her flaming Sword,
and only waits the BARD'S assenting Word!
Beside Him POESY knitts her angry
Brow,
And Seems to Ruminate a
Dreadful Vow;
Behind, a Numerous frightful
Train
appear
Rending, with
Dolefull Shricks,
the ambient Air;
Furnished with
whips
and
Stings
to
Scourge us hence,
And
Murder
Us, e're WE can
murder
Sense:
They come!—
"Ye mystic Forms which wreck the Soul
And thou much injur'd
BARD—nay do not Scowl,
Nor vent thy heighten'd Rage on
me
alone,
There's
more
Behin'd—I'm not the
only One;
Illusion all—tis fled—and I'm at Rest—
'Twas but the Fancy of a guilty Breast.
"Sure 'tis the very Error of the Moon,
"Revenge grows Harsh, and Murder's out of Tune."
I cannot do't by Heaven—I cannot do't:
"Yet she must Die
—Ay, that's beyond dispute.
The MUSE shall Die—
"else she'll betray more Men,
Or may be, play her Tricks
with us
again.
So let us fairly do it
Here
to
Night,
Put out the Light—and then, put out the Light.
Come on my Lads—nay hang me if I sham Her,
And when WE'VE
kill'd Her—let the
AUDIENCE damn
Her.
A SATIRICAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN A
Sea Captain
and his
Friend
in Town.
WELL met noble Captain, you're wellcome on Shore,
Pray when did you land?
last Night,
Not before?
No by
G—d;
'twas a wonder I landed so soon,
For the Wind has blown hard since the change of the Moon.
Pray what News do you bring from the
African
Coast?
Why good News I think—I had surely been lost,
If NEPTUNE the
Sovereign God of the Sea▪
Had
not
interpos'd twixt EOLUS and ME.
But what's the most talk'd of in this famous City,
Where the PEOPLE are all
so polite
and
so witty?
So extensive the Place, it must
something
afford:
Why faith honest Captain, I know not a Word
That's worth my relating; yet list and you'l hear;
Tho' 'twill rather
chagrine
you, than
please
you I fear:
Our GENTRY of late,
to their Honour be't spoke,
(Who think themselves wiser than all other Folk)
Have
acted,
like People
bereft of their Senses,
For
Gentility's lost
when the
Player commences.
The
Player commences!
Why what do you mean?
Have Patience good Captain, I'll open the Scene:
You must know that in
London
some
People
there are,
So fond of the Greatness, that waits on a Play'r,
That at once
they turn'd
ACTORS
themselves to expose;
To the
Pity of Friends
and the
Censure of Foes:
Lord
what
cou'd induce them such
Madmen
to be;
Oh you know the French Phrase,
a la Mode de Paris,
Sir, the
French
have perform'd
Alluding to an account in the Paper of a Play perform'd by Some young Noblemen in France.
oh then 'tis all well
The
English must follow them THO' 'TWERE TO HELL;
Where if
Cerberus
did not the
French Men
affright,
(But would let them go visit the
Regions
of
Night
)
Each
Monkey,
would after them, like a
Brave Fellow,
As
they've
done now by
playing the Fool
—and OTHELLO.
There's a
Fable
I learn'd it at School Years ago,
I'll relate it, I think it is
quite apropo:
On a Time, as (Fame says) the
Apes acted a Play:
Tho I know not the Date of the Year or the Day,
Nor is it material since it was enacted.
And For
Apes,
'twas done better than could be Expected?
The
Asses
Soon heard on't and
they
must Needs try.
Yet they used this Precaution that
None should be by,
But Those Who Were
really Asses
indeed:
For (says they) they may Laugh? if we do not Succeed;
But our
Gentry
So
Confident bold,
and
Conceited,
Ne'ver used this Precaution, But Fairly admitted.
An
Audience of Critics,
To See their Fine
Play,
Then the Asses In Fact Acted wiser than They.
Pray How Was't Receiv'd were the
Hearers
quite
Civil?
Ay,
or else the
Whole Play
had Gone
Souse to the Devil.
Good Manners
Obliged, them
Somtimes
to applaud;
Tho they Little Deserv'd it:
I Believe so by G-d.
And Pray
What expence
Might attend
this Affair,
Why
FIFTEEN HUNDRED POUNDS
our papers declare.
Fifteen Hundred!
D'ye Say, Why G-d Dam my Blood
So much Money Spent to do no Sort of Good,
How much more Commendable would it have been?
Since Objects of Pity So frequent are seen.
With benevolent Hands to have giv'n it to Those,
And not paid so dearly themselves to expose;
Faith Captain you're right,
my
Opinion's the same,
For in
every Respect
they are
greatly to blame:
Now
if
I was an Actor,
this Method
I'd take,
The
Stage
and its
Drudgery
both I'd
forsake;
Turn
GENTLEMAN
now,
as the GENTRY
turn Players
And
exhibit a Taste
far
genteeler than
THEIRS.
EPILOGUE.
WHY what a Trick they've play'd me here egad,
Pray is'nt it enough to make one
Mad:
Such idle Things these Men—
Dull dronish Rogues,
To make us
tender Souls
speak Epilogues:
But yet I partly guess what they're about;
And faith I'll tell,
for Wit and Truth will out.
You
too may guess—but this I know the Case is,
The Chaps are all
asham'd to shew their Faces;
But shame's th'
Effect of Guilt
—it is most certain
No wonder then they've
sneak'd behind the Curtain.
And send me here to gild a dirty Cause,
To tickle your good-natures for Applause,
If I don't mawl 'em for't, Let them mawl me
I'll teach the scurvy Knaves Civillity.
Well but good Audience did you like the Play,
Ha! now you shake your Heads—
and well you may;
For sure
such Wretches
never trod the Stage,
Unless it were to
lull
a
nodding Age;
Well for my Part, it pleas'd me to the Life,
To hear Oth—llo bawl so for his Wife.
Wife! what Wife!
—he
had
a
Wife
last Summer,
And has so still—
He's only parted from her.
But that's a c—tly Fault—no more of That,
They both consented, so 'twas
Tit
for
Tat,
Suppose he
had
lost her—
why
this mighty Pother,
His
Monkey F—t
can help him to
another.
But soft methinks I hear him rave behind,
Bear witness all—
he swears he'll beat me blind:
Why let the great and mighty Hero come,
And beat his Fill—he cannot beat me Dumb;
I'll have my Way in spite of Friends or Foes,
I've said no more than what the Audience knows.
FINIS.
N. B
On
Monday
Noon next will be publish'd the
third Edition,
of the genuine Life of
Wm. Parsons,
Esqr. lately executed at
Tyburn,
written by himself; and contains (exclusive of his Head, from an original Picture) his entertaining Amour with the late celebrated Miss
E—ds,
both before and after her seperation from
Lord—n,
his Intrigue with the present Lady
V—
his polite way of robbing the Ladies in
Newfoundland:
His Scheme with a Footman to run away with his Sister, and several other remarkable and interesting Scenes, with
Original Letters, Verses,
&c. &c. &c.
none of which (nor his Picture) a
to be found in any other Life yei publish'd,
Likewise all his other Transactions, that are worthy the perusal of the Publick.
The first Impression was so well receiv'd as to be all sold off in a few Hours after publication, and the Second Edition in little more than a Week.
Sold by
F. Stamper,
in
Pope's Head Alley, Cornhill,
and
J. Brooke,
at the
Golden Head,
under St.
Dunstans's Church, Fleet street,
(Price 1
.)