A SUPPLEMENT TO CHATTERTON'S MISCELLANIES. [PRICE TWO SHILLINGS.]
A SUPPLEMENT TO THE MISCELLANIES OF THOMAS CHATTERTON.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. BECKET, IN PALL-MALL; BOOKSELLER TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES, AND THEIR ROYAL HIGHNESSES THE PRINCES. MDCCLXXXIV.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Editor begs leave to assure the Public, that the following Poems are unquestionable Originals; the greater part of them having been immediately transcribed from
Chatterton
's own Manuscript.
As
the Character
of their Author is now generally understood, it is thought unnecessary to make any apology for
his
sentiments, or to say any thing of the composition.
CONTENTS.
To a Friend—March 6th, 1768 Page 1
To the Beauteous Miss H—L—D. 1768 3
Ode to Miss H—L—D. 1768 5
Acrostic on Miss H—L—D. 1768 8
Acrostic on Miss Sally Clarke. 1768 9
To Miss H—L—D. 1768 10
To Miss H—L—D. 1768 12
To Miss H—L—D. 1768 14
To Miss H—L—D, with a Present. 1768 16
To Miss H—L—D. 1768 17
To Miss Clarke. 1768 18
Epistle to the Rev. Mr. Catcott, Dec. 16th, 1769 19
Observations on the foregoing Epistle Dec. 20th, 1769 33
Sentiment. 1769 34
The Defence. Dec. 25th, 1769 35
Song to Mr. Catcott. 1769 39
Tournament. 1769 42
Oure Ladyes Chirch. 1769 50
Heccar and Gaira. January 3d, 1770 53
Will. April 14th, 1770 60
The Methodist. May, 1770 72
Colin Instructed. 1770 74
Burlesque Cantata. 1770 75
Song. Fanny of the Hill. 1770 77
Burletta: The Woman of Spirit. 1770 79
SUPPLEMENT TO CHATTERTON'S MISCELLANIES.
TO A FRIEND.
MARCH 6TH, 1768.
DEAR FRIEND,
I HAVE received both your favours—The Muse alone must tell my joy.
O'ER WHELM'D with pleasure at the joyful news,
I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse.
Begin, O Servant of the Sacred Nine!
And echo joy through ev'ry nervous line:
Bring down th' etherial Choir to aid the Song;
Let boundless raptures smoothly glide along.
My Baker's well!—Oh words of sweet delight!
Now! now! my Muse, soar up th' Olympic height.
What wond'rous numbers can the Goddess find,
To paint th' extatic raptures of my mind?
I leave it to a Goddess more divine,
The beauteous H—l—d shall employ my line.
TO THE BEAUTEOUS MISS H—L—D.
FAR distant from Brittannia's lofty Isle,
What shall I find to make the Genius smile?
The bubbling fountains lose the power to please,
The rocky cataracts, the shady trees,
The juicy fruitage of enchanting hue,
Whose luscious virtues England never knew;
The variegated Daughters of the Land,
Whose numbers Flora strows with bounteous hand;
The verdant vesture of the smiling fields,
All the rich pleasures Nature's store-house yields,
Have all their powers to wake the chorded string:
But still they're subjects that the Muse can sing.
H—l—d more beauteous than the God of Day,
Her name can quicken and awake the Lay;
Rouse the soft Muse, from indolence and ease;
To live, to love, and rouse her powers to please.
In vain would Phoebus, did not H—l—d rise:
'Tis her bright eyes that gilds the Eastern skies;
'Tis she alone deprives us of the light;
And when she slumbers, then indeed 'tis night.
To tell the sep'rate beauties of her 'face
Would stretch Eternity's remotest space,
And want a more than man, to pen the line;
I rest; let this suffice, dear H—l—d's all divine.
ODE TO MISS H—L—D.
1768.
AMIDST the wild and dreary dells,
The distant echo-giving bells,
The bending mountains head;
Whilst Ev'ning, moving thro' the sky,
Over the object and the eye,
Her pitchy robes doth spread.
There gently moving thro' the vale,
Bending before the blust'ring gale,
Fell apparitions glide;
Whilst roaring rivers echo round,
The drear reverberating sound
Runs thro' the mountain side:
Then steal I softly to the grove,
And singing of the Nymph I love,
Sigh out my sad complaint;
To paint the tortures of my mind,
Where can the Muses numbers find?
Ah! numbers are too faint!
Ah! H—l—d, Empress of my heart,
When will thy breast admit the dart,
And own a mutual flame?
When, wand'ring in the myrtle groves,
Shall mutual pleasures seal our loves;
Pleasures without a name?
Thou greatest beauty of the sex,
When will the little God perplex
The mansions of thy breast?
When wilt thou own a flame as pure,
As that seraphic souls endure,
And make thy Baker blest?
O! haste to give my passion ease,
And bid the perturbation cease,
That harrows up my soul!
The joy such happiness to find,
Would make the functions of my mind
In peace and love to roll.
ACROSTIC ON MISS.
1768.
ENCHANTING is the mighty power of Love;
Life stript of amorous joys would irksome prove;
Ev'n Heaven's great Thund'rer woreth' easy chain,
And over all the world, Love keeps his reign;
No human heart can bear the piercing blade,
Or I than others, am more tender made.
Right thro' my heart a burning arrow drove,
Hoyland's bright eyes, were made the bows of Love.
Oh! torture, inexpressibly severe!
You are the pleasing Author of my care;
Look down, fair Angel, on a Swain distrest,
A gracious smile from you would make me blest.
Nothing but that blest favour stills my grief,
Death, that denied, will quickly give relief.
ACROSTIC ON MISS.
1768.
SERAPHIC Virgins of the tuneful Choir,
Assist me to prepare the sounding lyre!
Like her I sing, soft, sensible, and fair,
Let the smooth numbers warble in the air;
Ye Prudes, Coquets, and all the misled throng,
Can Beauty, Virtue, Sense, demand the Song;
Look then on Clarke, and see them all unite;
A beauteous pattern, to the always-right.
Rest here, my Muse, not soar above thy sphere,
Kings might pay adoration to the fair,
Enchanting, full of joy, peerless in face and air.
TO MISS H—L—D.
1768.
ONCE more the Muse to beauteous H—l—d sings;
Her grateful tribute of harsh numbers brings
To H—l—d! Nature's richest, sweetest store,
She made an H—l—d, and can make no more.
Nor all the beauties of the world's vast round
United, will as sweet as her be found.
Description sickens to rehearfe her praise.
Her worth alone will deify my days.
Enchanting creature! Charms so great as thine
May all the beauties of the day outshine.
Thy eyes to ev'ry gazer send a dart,
Thy taking graces captivate the heart.
O for a Muse that shall ascend the skies,
And like the subject of the Epode rise;
To sing the sparkling eye, the portly grace,
The thousand beauties that adorn the face
Of my seraphic Maid; whose beauteous charms
Might court the world to rush at once to arms.
Whilst the fair Goddess, native of the skies,
Shall sit above, and be the Victor's prize.
O now, whil'st yet I sound the tuneful lyre,
I feel the thrilling joy her hands inspire;
When the soft tender touch awakes my blood,
And rolls my passions with the purple flood.
My pulse beat high: my throbbing breast's on fire
In sad variety of wild desire.
O H—l—d! Heav'nly Goddess! Angel, Saint,
Words are too weak thy mighty worth to paint;
Thou best, compleatest work that Nature made,
Thou art my substance, and I am thy shade.
Possess'd of thee, I joyfully would go
Thro' the loud tempest, and the depth of woe.
From thee alone my being I derive,
One beauteous smile from thee, makes all my hopes alive.
TO MISS H—L—D.
1768.
SINCE short the busy scene of life will prove,
Let us my H—l—d learn to live and love;
To love, with passions pure as morning light,
Whose saffron beams unsullied by the night
With rosy mantles do the Heavens streak,
Faint imitators of my H—l—d's cheek.
The joys of Nature in her ruin'd state
Have little pleasure, tho' the pains are great.
Virtue and Love, when sacred bands unite,
'Tis then that Nature leads to true delight.
Oft as I wander thro' the myrtle grove,
Bearing the beauteous burden of my love,
A secret terror, lest I should offend
The charming Maid on whom my joys depend,
Informs my soul, that virtuous minds alone
Can give a pleasure, to the vile unknown.
But when the body charming, and the mind,
To ev'ry virtuous christian act inclin'd,
Meet in one person, Maid and Angel join;
Who must it be, but H—l—d the divine?
What worth intrinsic will that man possess,
Whom the dear charmer condescends to bless?
Swift will the minutes roll, the flying hours,
And blessings overtake the pair by showers.
Each moment will improve upon the past,
And every day be better than the last.
Love, means an unadulterated flame,
Tho' lust too oft usurps the sacred name;
Such passion as in H—l—d's breast can move,
'Tis that alone deserves the name of Love.
Oh was my merit great enough to find
A favour'd station in my H—l—d's mind;
Then would my happiness be quite compleat,
And all revolving joys as in a center meet.
TO MISS H—L—D.
1768.
TELL me, God of soft desires,
Little Cupid, wanton Boy,
How thou kindlest up thy fires!
Giving pleasing pain and joy.
H—l—d's beauty is thy bow,
Striking glances are thy darts;
Making conquests never slow,
Ever gaining conquer'd hearts.
Heaven is seated in her smile,
Juno's in her portly air;
Not Britania's fav'rite Isle
Can produce a Nymph so fair.
In a desart vast and drear,
Where disorder springs around,
If the lovely Fair is there,
'Tis a pleasure-giving ground.
Oh! my H—l—d! blest with thee,
I'd the raging storm defy,
In thy smiles, I live, am free;
When thou frownest, I must die.
TO MISS H—L—D.
1768.
WITH A PRESENT.
ACCEPT, fair Nymph, this token of my love,
Nor look disdainful on the prostrate Swain;
By ev'ry sacred oath; I'll constant prove,
And act as worthy for to wear your chain.
Not with more constant ardour shall the sun
Chase the faint shadows of the night away;
Nor shall he on his course more constant run,
And cheer the universe with coming day,
Than I in pleasing chains of conquest bound,
Adore the charming Author of my smart;—
For ever will I thy sweet charms resound,
And paint the fair Possessor of my heart.
TO MISS H—L—D.
1768.
COUNT all the flow'rs that deck the meadow's side,
When Flora flourishes in new-born pride;
Count all the sparkling orbits in the sky;
Count all the birds that thro' the aether sly;
Count all the foliage of the lofty trees,
That fly before the bleak autumnal breeze;
Count all the dewy blades of verdant grass;
Count all the drops of rain that softly pass
Thro' the blue aether; or tempestuous roar;
Count all the sands upon the breaking shore;
Count all the minutes since the world began,
Count all the troubles of the life of man;
Count all the torments of the d—n'd in Hell,
More are the beauteous charms that makes my Nymph excell.
TO MISS C—KE.
1768.
TO sing of Clarke my Muse aspires,
A theme by charms made quite divine;
Ye tuneful Virgins sound your lyres,
Apollo aid the feeble line;
If Truth and Virtue, Wit, and Charms,
May for a fix'd attention call:
The darts of Love and wounding arms
The beauteous Clarke shall hold o'er all.
'Tis not the tincture of a skin,
The rosy lip, the charming eye.
No 'tis a greater Power within,
That bids the passion never die:
These Clarke possesses, and much more,
All beauty in her glances sport,
She is the Goddess all adore,
In Country, City, and at Court.
EPISTLE TO THE REVEREND MR. CATCOTT.
DECEMBER 16TH, 1769.
WHAT strange infatuations rule mankind!
How narrow are our prospects, how confin'd!
With universal vanity possest,
We fondly think our own ideas best:
Our tott'ring arguments are ever strong;
We're always self-sufficient in the wrong.
What philosophic Sage of pride austere
Can lend conviction an attentive ear?
What pattern of humility and truth
Can bear the jeering ridicule of youth?
What blushing Author ever rank'd his Muse
With Fowler's Poet-Laureat of the Stews?
Dull Penny, nodding o'er his wooden lyre,
Conceits the vapours of Geneva fire.
All in the language of Apostles cry,
If Angels contradict me, Angels lie?
As all have intervals of ease and pain,
So all have intervals of being vain;
But some of folly never shift the scene,
Or let one lucid moment intervene;
Dull single acts of many-footed Prose
Their tragi-comedys of life compose;
Incessant madding for a system toy
The greatest of Creations blessings cloy;
Their senses dosing a continual dream,
They hang enraptured o'er the hideous scheme:
So virgins tott'ring into ripe three score,
Their greatest likeness in baboons adore.
When you advance new systems, first unfold
The various imperfections of the old;
Prove Nature hitherto a gloomy night,
You the first focus of primaeval light.
'Tis not enough you think your system true,
The busy world wou'd have you prove it too:
Then, rising on the ruins of the rest,
Plainly demonstrate your ideas best.
Many are best; one only can be right
Tho' all had inspiration to indite.
Some this unwelcome truth perhaps would tell,
Where Clogher stumbled, Catcott fairly fell.
Writers on Rolls of Science long renown'd
In one fell page are tumbled to the ground.
We see their systems unconfuted still;
But Catcott can confute them—if he will.
Would you the honour of a Priest mistrust
An excommunication proves him just.
Could Catcott from his better sense be drawn
To bow the knee to Baal's sacred lawn?
A mitred Rascal to his long-ear'd flocks
Gives ill example, to his wh—s, the p-x
Yet we must reverence sacerdotal black,
And saddle all his faults on Nature's back.
But hold, there's solid reason to revere;
His Lordship has six thousand pounds a year;
In gaming solitude he spends the nights,
He fasts at Arthur's and he prays at White's;
Rolls o'er the pavement with his Swiss-tail'd six,
At White's the Athanasian Creed for Tricks.
Whil'st the poor Curate in his rusty gown
Trudges unnotic'd thro' the dirty town.
If God made order, order never made
These nice distinctions in the preaching trade.
The servants of the Devil are rever'd,
And Bishops pull the Fathers by the beard.
Yet in these horrid forms Salvation lives,
These are Religions representatives;
Yet to these idols must we bow the knee—
Excuse me, Broughton, when I bow to thee.
But sure Religion can produce at least,
One Minister of God—one honest Priest.
Search Nature o'er, procure me, if you can,
The fancy'd character, an honest Man
(A man of sense, not honest by constraint
For fools are canvass, living but in paint)
To Mammon, or to Superstition slaves,
All orders of mankind are fools, or knaves:
In the first attribute by none surpast,
Taylor endeavours to obtain the last.
Imagination may be too confin'd;
Few see too far; how many are half blind?
How are your feeble arguments perplext
To find out meaning in a senseless text?
You rack each metaphor upon the wheel,
And words can philosophic truths conceal.
What Paracelsus humor'd as a jest,
You realize to prove your system best.
Might we not, Catcott, then infer from hence,
Your zeal for Scripture hath devour'd your sense?
Apply the glass of reason to your sight,
See Nature marshal oozy atoms right.
Think for yourself, for all mankind are free;
We need not Inspiration how to see.
If Scripture contradictory you find,
Be Orthodox, and own your senses blind.
How blinded are their optics, who aver,
What Inspiration dictates cannot err.
Whence is this boasted Inspiration sent,
Which makes us utter truths, we never meant?
Which couches systems in a single word,
At once deprav'd, abstruse, sublime, absurd.
What Moses tells us might perhaps be true,
As he was learn'd in all the Egyptians knew.
But to assert that Inspiration's giv'n,
The Copy of Philosophy in Heav'n,
Strikes at Religions root, and fairly fells
The awful terrors of ten thousand Hells.
Attentive search the Scriptures and you'll find
What vulgar errors are with truths combin'd.
Your tortur'd truths, which Moses seem'd to know,
He could not unto Inspiration owe;
For if from God one error you admit,
How dubious is the rest of Holy Writ?
What knotty difficultys fancy solves?
The Heav'ns irradiate, and the Earth revolves;
But here Imagination is allow'd
To clear this voucher from its mantling cloud:
From the same word we different meanings quote,
As David wears a many colour'd coat.
O Inspiration, ever hid in night,
Reflecting various each adjacent light;
If Moses caught thee in the parted flood;
If David found thee in a sea of blood;
If Mahomet with slaughter drench'd thy soil,
On loaded asses bearing off thy spoil;
If thou hast favour'd Pagan, Turk, or Jew,
Say had not Broughton Inspiration too?
Such rank absurdities debase his line,
I almost could have sworn he copied thine.
Confute with candour, where you can confute,
Reason and arrogance but poorly suit.
Yourself may fall before some abler pen,
Infallibility is not for men.
With modest diffidence new schemes indite,
Be not too positive, tho' in the right.
What man of sense would value vulgar praise,
Or rise on Penny's prose, or duller lays?
Tho' pointed fingers mark the Man of Fame,
And literary Grocers chaunt your name;
Tho' in each Taylors book-case Catcott shines,
With ornamental flow'rs and gilded lines;
Tho' youthful Ladies who by instinct scan
The Natural Philosophy of Man,
Can ev'ry reason of your work repeat,
As sands in Africa retain the heat:
Yet check your flowing pride: Will all allow
To wreathe the labour'd laurel round your brow?
Some may with seeming arguments dispense,
Tickling your vanity to wound your sense:
But Clayfield censures, and demonstrates too,
Your theory is certainly untrue;
On Reason and Newtonian rules he proves,
How distant your machine from either moves.
But my objections may be reckon'd weak,
As nothing but my mother tongue I speak;
Else would I ask; by what immortal Pow'r
All Nature was dissolv'd as in an hour.
How, when the earth acquir'd a solid state,
And rising mountains saw the waves abate,
Each particle of matter sought its kind,
All in a strata regular combin'd?
When instantaneously the liquid heap
Harden'd to rocks, the barriers of the deep,
Why did not earth unite a stony mass;
Since stony filaments thro' all must pass?
If on the wings of air the planets run,
Why are they not impell'd into the sun?
Philosophy, nay common sense, will prove
All passives with their active agents move.
If the diurnal motion of the air,
Revolves the planets in their destin'd sphere;
How are the secondary orbs impell'd?
How are the moons from falling headlong held?
'Twas the Eternal's fiat you reply;
And who will give Eternity the lie?
I own the awful truth, that God made all,
And by his fiat worlds and systems fall.
But study Nature; not an atom there
Will unassisted by her powers appear;
The fiat, without agents, is, at best,
For priestcraft or for ignorance a vest.
Some fancy God is what we Nature call,
Being itself material, all in all.
The fragments of the Deity we own,
Is vulgarly as various matter known.
No agents could assist Creations birth:
We trample on our God, for God is Earth.
'Tis past the pow'r of language to confute
This latitudinary attribute.
How lofty must Imagination soar,
To reach absurdities unknown before?
Thanks to thy pinions, Broughton, thou hast brought
From the Moons orb a novelty of thought.
Restrain, O Muse, thy unaccomplish'd lines,
Fling not thy saucy satire at Divines;
This single truth thy brother Bards must tell;
Thou hast one excellence, of railing well.
But disputations are befitting those
Who settle Hebrew points, and scold in prose.
O Learning, where are all thy fancied joys
Thy empty pleasures and thy solemn toys?
Proud of thy own importance; tho' we see
We've little reason to be proud of thee:
Thou putrid foetus of a barren brain,
Thou offspring illegitimate of Pain.
Tell me, sententious Mortals, tell me whence
You claim the preference to men of sense?
—wants learning; see the letter'd throng
Banter his English in a Latin song.
Oxonian Sages hesitate to speak
Their native Language, but declaim in Greek.
If in his jests a discord should appear,
A dull lampoon is innocently clear.
Ye Classic Dunces, self-sufficient fools,
Is this the boasted justice of your schools?
—has parts; parts which would set aside
The labour'd acquisitions of your pride;
Uncultivated now his Genius lies,
Instruction sees his latent beauties rise;
His gold is bullion, yours debas'd with brass,
Imprest with Folly's head to make it pass.
But—swears so loud, so indiscreet,
His thunders rattle thro' the list'ning street:
Ye rigid Christians, formally severe,
Blind to his charities, his oaths you hear;
Observe his virtues: Calumny must own
A noble soul is in his actions shown;
Tho' dark this bright original you paint,
I'd rather be a—than a Saint.
Excuse me, Catcott, if from you I stray,
The Muse will go where Merit leads the way;
The Owls of Learning may admire the night,
But—shines with Reason's glowing light.
Still Admonition presses to my pen,
The infant Muse would give advice to Men.
But what avails it, since the man I blame
Owns no superior in the paths of fame?
In springs, in mountains, strata's, mines, and rocks,
Catcott is every notion Orthodox.
If to think otherwise you claim pretence,
Which is the true reading is uncertain, both being in his own hand-writing, and uncancelled.
Renounce detested heretick in sense.
Which is the true reading is uncertain, both being in his own hand-writing, and uncancelled.
You're a detested heretick in sense.
But oh! how lofty your ideas roar,
In shewing wond'ring Cits the fossile store!
The Ladies are quite ravish'd, as he tells
The short adventures of the pretty shells;
Miss Biddy sickens to indulge her touch,
Madam more prudent thinks 'twould seem too much;
The doors fly open, instantly he draws
The sparry lood, and wonders of applause;
The full dress'd Lady sees with envying eye
The sparkle of her di'mond pendants die;
Sage Natural Philosophers adore
The fossil whimsys of the numerous store.
But see! the purple stream begins to play,
To shew how fountains climb the hilly way.
Hark what a murmur echoes thro' the throng.
Gods! that the pretty trifle should be wrong!
Experience in the voice of Reason tells
Above its surface water never swells.
Where is the priestly soul of Catcott now?
See what a triumph sits upon his brow:
And can the poor applause of things like these,
Whose souls and sentiments are all disease,
Raise little triumphs in a man like you,
Catcott, the foremost of the Judging few?
So at Llewellins your great Brother sits,
The laughter of his tributary wits;
Ruling the noisy multitude with ease,
Empties his pint and sputters his decrees.
DEC. 20TH, 1769.
MR. CATCOTT will be pleased to observe that I admire many things in his learned Remarks. This Poem is an innocent effort of poetical Vengeance, as Mr. Catcott has done me the honour to criticise my Trifles. I have taken great poetical liberties and what I dislike in Verse possibly deserves my approbation in the plain Prose of Truth—The many Admirers of Mr. Catcott may on perusal of this rank me as an Enemy: But I am indifferent in all things, I value neither the praise or censure of the Multitude.
SENTIMENT.
1769.
SINCE we can die but once, what matters it,
If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,
Slow-wasting sickness or the sudden burst
Of valve arterial in the noble parts,
Curtail the miseries of human life?
Tho' varied is the Cause, the Effect's the same;
All to one common Dissolution tends.
THE DEFENCE,
DEC. 25TH, 1769.
NO more, dear Smith, the hackney'd Tale renew;
I own their censure, I approve it too.
For how can Ideots destitute of thought,
Conceive, or estimate, but as they're taught?
Say, can the satirizing Pen of Shears,
Exalt his name, or mutilate his ears?
None, but a Lawrence, can adore his Lays,
Who in a quart of Claret drinks his praise.
T—l—r repeats, what Catcott told before,
But lying T—l—r is believ'd no more.
If in myself I think my notions just,
The Church and all her arguments are dust.
Religion's but Opinion's bastard Son,
A perfect mystery, more than three in one.
'Tis fancy all, distempers of the mind;
As Education taught us, we're inclin'd.
Happy the man, whose reason bids him see,
Mankind are by the state of Nature free;
Who, thinking for himself, despises those,
That would upon his better sense impose;
Is to himself the Minister of God,
Nor dreads the path, where Athanasius trod.
Happy (if Mortals can be) is the Man,
Who, not by Priest, but Reason rules his span;
Reason, to its Possessor a sure guide,
Reason, a thorn in Revelations side.
If Reason fails, incapable to tread
Thro' gloomy Revelations thick'ning bed,
On what authority the Church we own?
How shall we worship Deities unknown?
Can the Eternal Justice pleas'd receive
The prayers of those, who, ignorant believe?
Search the thick multitudes of ev'ry Sect,
The Church supreme, with Whitfield's new Elect;
No individual can their God define,
No, not great Penny in his nervous Line.
But why must Chatterton selected sit,
The butt of ev'ry Critic's little wit?
Am I alone for ever in a crime;
Nonsense in Prose, or blasphemy in Rhyme?
All monosyllables a line appears?
Is it not very often so in Shears?
See gen'rous Eccas, length'ning out my praise
Inraptur'd with the music of my Lays;
In all the arts of panegyric grac'd,
The cream of modern Literary Taste.
Why, to be sure, the metaphoric line
Has something sentimental, tender, fine;
But then how hobbling are the other two;
There are some beauties, but they're very few.
Besides the Author, 'faith 'tis something odd,
Commends a reverential awe of God.
Read but another fancy of his brain;
He's Atheistical in every strain.
Fallacious is the charge: 'Tis all a lie,
As to my reason I can testify.
I own a God, immortal, boundless, wise,
Who bid our glories of Creation rise;
Who form'd his varied likeness in mankind,
Centring his many wonders in the mind;
Who saw Religion, a fantastic night
But gave us Reason to obtain the light.
Indulgent Whitfield scruples not to say,
He only can direct to Heavens high-way.
While Bishops, with as much vehemence tell,
Both in the Author's hand-writing, and uncancelled.
Sects heterodox are food for Hell.
Both in the Author's hand-writing, and uncancelled.
All sorts heterodox are food for Hell.
Why then, dear Smith, since Doctors disagree,
Their notions are not oracles to me:
What I think right, I ever will pursue
And leave you liberty to do so too.
SONG TO MR. G. CATCOTT.
1769.
1.
AH blame me not, Catcott, if from the right way
My notions and actions run far.
How can my ideas do other but stray,
Depriv'd of the ruling North Star?
2.
Ah blame me not, Broderip, if mounted aloft,
I chatter and spoil the dull air;
How can I imagine thy foppery soft,
When discord's the voice of my fair?
3.
If Turner remitted my bluster and rhymes,
If Harding was girlish and cold,
If never an ogle was met from Miss Grimes,
If Flavia was blasted and old;
4.
I chose without liking, and left without pain,
Nor welcom'd the frown with a sigh;
I scorn'd, like a monkey, to dangle my chain,
And paint them new charms with a lie.
5.
Once Cotton was handsome; I flam'd, and I burn'd,
I died to obtain the bright Queen;
But when I beheld my Epistle return'd,
By Jesu it alter'd the scene.
6.
She's damnable ugly, my Vanity cried,
You lie, says my Conscience, you lie;
Resolving to follow the dictates of Pride,
I'd view her a hag to my eye.
7.
But should she regain her bright lustre again,
And shine in her natural charms,
'Tis but to accept of the works of my pen,
And permit me to use my own arms.
O'Ro
e
upon his courser fleet,
Who swift as lightning were his feet,
First gain'd the lists and gatte him fame;
From West Hybernee Isle he came,
His myghte depictur'd in his
Probably alluding to the word Rock.
name.
All dreded such an one to meet;
Bold as a mountain wolf he stood,
Upon his swerde sat grim dethe and bloude.
But when he threwe down his Asenglave,
Next came in
Sir Botelier
bold and brave,
The dethe of manie a Saraceen;
Theie thought him a Devil from Hells black pen,
Ne thinking that anie of mortalle menne
Could send so manie to the grave.
For his life to
John Rumsee
he render'd his thanks
Descended from
Godred
the King of the Manks.
Within his sure rest he settled his speare,
And ran at
O'Rocke
in full career;
Their launces with the furious stroke
Into a thousand shivers broke,
Even as the thunder tears the oak,
And scatters splinters here and there;
So great the shock, their senses did depart,
The bloude all ran to strengthen up the harte.
Syr Botelier Rumsie
first came from his traunce,
And from the Marshall toke the launce;
O'Rocke
eke chose another speere,
And ran at
Syr Botelier
full career;
His prancynge stede the ground did tare;
In haste he made a false advance;
Syr Botelier
seeing, with myghte amain
Fellde him down upon the playne.
Syr Pigotte Novlin
at the Clarions sound,
On a milk-white stede with gold trappings around,
He couchde in his rest, his silver-poynt speere,
And ferslie ranne up in full career;
But for his appearance he payed full deare,
In the first course laid on the ground;
Besmeer'd in the dust with his silver and gold,
No longer a glorious sight to behold.
Syr Botelier
then having conquer'd his twayne,
Rode Conqueror off the tourneying playne;
Receivying a garland from
Alice
's hand,
The sayrest Ladye in the lande.
Syr Pigotte
this viewed, and furious did stand,
Tormented in mind and bodily peyne,
Syr Botelier
crown'd, most galantlie stode,
As some tall oak within the thick wode.
Awhile the shrill Clarions sounded the word;
Next rode in
Syr John, of Adderleigh
Lord,
Who over his back his thick shield did bryng,
In checkee of redde and silver sheeninge,
With steede and gold trappings beseeming a King,
A guilded fine Adder twyned round his swerde.
De Bretville
advanced a man of great myghte
And couched his launce in his rest for the fyghte.
Ferse as the falling waters of the lough,
That tumble headlonge from the mountains browe,
Ev'n so they met in drierie sound,
De Bretville
fell upon the ground,
The bloude from inward bruised wound,
Did out his stained helmet flowe;
As some tall bark upon the foamie main,
So laie
De Bretville
on the plain.
Syr John of the Dale
or
Compton
hight,
Advanced next in lists of fyght,
He knew the tricks of tourneying full well,
In running race ne manne culd him excell,
Or how to wielde a sworde better tel.
And eke he was a manne of might;
On a black Stede with silver trappynges dyght
He darde the dangers of the tourneyd fighte.
Within their rests their speeres they set,
So furiously ech other met.
That
Comptons
well intended speere
Syr John
his shield in pieces tare,
And wound his hand in furious geir;
Syr Johns
stele Assenglave was wette:
Syr John
then toe the marshal turned
His breast with meekle furie burn'd.
The tenders of the feelde came in,
And bade the Champyons not begyn;
Eche tourney but one hour should last,
And then one hour was gone and past.
END OF THE FYRST CANTO.
IN IMITATION OF OUR OLD POETS. ON OURE LADYES CHIRCH.
1769.
IN auntient dayes, when Kenewalchyn King
Of all the borders of the sea did reigne,
Whos cutting CELES,
CELES, most probably from the antient word
Ceolis;
which, in the Saxon, is
ships.
From whence
Ceolae,
we find in Brompton, are used for large ships.
as the Bardyes synge,
Cut strakyng furrowes in the foamie mayne,
Sancte Warbur cast aside his Earles estate,
As great as good, and eke as good as great.
Tho blest with what us men accounts as store,
Saw something further, and saw something more.
Where smokyng Wasker scours the claiey bank,
And gilded fishes wanton in the sunne,
Emyttynge to the feelds a dewie dank,
As in the twyning path-waye he doth runne;
Here stoode a house, that in the ryver smyle
Since valorous Ursa first wonne Bryttayn Isle;
The stones in one as firm as rock unite,
And it defyde the greatest Warriours myghte;
Around about the lofty elemens hie
Proud as their Planter reerde their greenie crest,
Bent out their heads, when e'er the wynds came bie.
In amorous dalliaunce the flete cloudes kest
Attendynge Squires dreste in trickynge brighte,
To each tenth Squier an attendynge Knyghte,
The hallie hung with pendaunts to the flore,
A coat of nobil armes upon the doore;
Horses and dogges to hunt the fallowe deere,
Of pastures many, wide extent of wode,
Faulkonnes in Mewes, and little birds to teir,
The Sparrow Hawke, and many Hawkies gode.
Just in the prime of life, whan others court
Some swottie Nymph, to gain their tender hand,
Greet with the Kynge and
trerdie
greet with the Court
And as aforesed mickle much of land.
FINIS.
HECCAR AND GAIRA AN AFRICAN ECLOGUE.
JAN. 3, 1770.
WHERE the rough Caigra rolls the surgy wave,
Urging his thunders thro the echoing / distant
Echoing
and
distant,
copied from the Boy's own hand; both uncancelled.
cave;
Where the sharp rocks, in distant horror seen,
Drive the white currents thro' the spreading green;
Where the loud Tyger, pawing in his rage,
Bids the black Archers of the wilds engage;
Stretch'd on the sand, two panting Warriors lay,
In all the burning torments of the day;
Their bloody jav'lins reek'd on living steem
Their bows were broken at the roaring stream:
Heccar the Chief of Jarra's fruitful Hill,
Where the dark vapours nightly dews distill,
Saw Gaira the companion of his soul,
Extended where loud Caigra's billows roll;
Gaira, the King of warring Archers found,
Where daily lightnings plow the sandy ground,
Where brooding tempests howl along the sky,
Where rising desarts whirl'd in circles fly.
HECCAR.
Gaira, 'tis useless to attempt the chace,
Swifter than hunted Wolves they urge the race;
Their lessening forms elude the straining eye,
Upon the plumage of Macaws they fly.
Let us return, and strip the reeking slain
Leaving the bodies on the burning plain.
GAIRA.
Heccar, my vengeance still exclaims for blood,
'Twould drink a wider stream than Caigra's flood.
This jav'lin, oft in nobler quarrels try'd,
Put the loud thunder of their arms aside.
Fast as the streaming rain, I pour'd the dart,
Hurling a whirlwind thro' the trembling heart:
But now my lingring feet revenge denies,
O could I throw my javlin from my eyes!
HECCAR.
When Gaira the united armies broke,
Death wing'd the arrow; Death impell'd the stroke.
See, pil'd in mountains, on the sanguine sand
The blasted of the lightnings of thy hand.
Search the brown desart, and the glossy green;
There are the trophies of thy valour seen.
The scatter'd bones mantled in silver white,
Once animated, dared the force
Query, whether not intended for foes?
in fight.
The Children of the Wave, whose palid race
Views the faint sun, display a languid face,
From the red fury of thy justice fled,
Swifter than torrents from their rocky bed.
Fear with a sicken'd silver ting'd their hue:
The guilty fear, when vengeance is their due.
GAIRA.
Rouse not Remembrance from her shad'wy cell,
Nor of those bloody sons of mischief tell.
Cawna, O Cawna! deck'd in sable charms,
What distant region holds thee from my arms?
Cawna, the pride of Afric's sultry vales,
Soft as the cooling murmur of the gales,
Majestic as the many colour'd Snake,
Trailing his glories thro' the blossom'd brake;
Black as the glossy rocks, where Eascal roars,
Foaming thro' sandy wastes to Jaghirs shores;
Swift as the arrow, hasting to the breast,
Was Cawna the companion of my rest.
The sun sat low'ring in the Western sky,
The swelling tempest spread around the eye;
Upon my Cawna's bosom I reclind,
Catching the breathing whispers of the wind:
Swift from the wood a prowling Tiger came;
Dreadful his voice, his eyes a glowing flame;
I bent the bow, the never-erring dart
Pierc'd his rough armour, but escap'd his heart;
He fled, tho' wounded, to a distant waste,
I urg'd the furious flight with fatal haste;
He fell, he dy'd—spent in the fiery toil,
I stripid his carcase of the furry spoil
And as the varied spangles met my eye,
On this, I cried, shall my lov'd Cawna lie.
The dusky midnight hung the skies in grey;
Impell'd by Love, I wing'd the airy way;
In the deep valley and the mossy plain,
I sought my Cawna, but I sought in vain.
The pallid shadows of the azure waves
Had made my Cawna and my children slaves.
Reflection maddens, to recall the hour,
The Gods had giv'n me to the Daemon's power.
The dusk slow vanish'd from the hated lawn,
I gain'd a mountain glaring with the dawn.
There the full sails, expanded to the wind,
Struck horror and distraction in my mind,
There Cawna mingled with a worthless train,
In common slav'ry drags the hated chain.
Now judge my Heccar, have I cause for rage?
Should aught the thunder of my arm assuage?
In ever-reeking blood this jav'lin dy'd
With vengeance shall be never satisfied:
I'll strew the beaches with the mighty dead
And tinge the lily of their features red.
HECCAR.
When the loud shriekings of the hostile cry
Roughly salute my ear, enrag'd I'll fly;
Send the sharp arrow quivering thro' the heart
Chill the hot vitals with the venom'd dart;
Nor heed the shining steel or noisy smoke,
Gaira and Vengeance shall inspire the stroke.
CHATTERTON'S WILL.
1770.
ALL this wrote between 11 and 2 o'clock Saturday in the utmost distress of mind. April 14, 1770.
N. B. In a dispute concerning the character of David, Mr. — argued that he must be a holy man, from the strains of piety that breathe through his whole works—I being of a contrary opinion, and knowing that a great genius can effect any thing, endeavouring in the
foregoing
What Poems Chatterton meant here is uncertain.
Poems
to represent an enthusiastic Methodist intended to send it to Romaine, and impose it upon the infatuated world as a reality; but thanks to Burgum's generosity, I am now employed in matters of more importance.
Saturday April 20, 1770.
BURGUM I thank thee, thou hast let me see,
That Bristol has impress'd her stamp on thee,
Thy generous spirit emulates the May'rs,
Thy generous spirit with thy Bristols pairs.
Gods! what would Burgum give, to get a name
And snatch his blundering dialect from shame?
What would he give, to hand his memory down
To times remotest boundary?—A Crown.
Would you ask more, his swelling face looks blue;
Futurity he rates at two pound two.
Well Burgum, take thy laurel to thy brow;
With a rich saddle decorate a sow,
Strut in Iambics, totter in an Ode,
Promise, and never pay, and be the mode.
Catcott, for thee, I know thy heart is good,
But ah! thy merit's seldom understood;
Too bigotted to whimsies, which thy youth
Receiv'd to venerate as Gospel truth,
Thy friendship never could be dear to me,
Since all I am is opposite to thee.
If ever obligated to thy purse
Rowley discharges all; my first chief curse
For had I never known the antique lore
I ne'er had ventured from my peaceful shore,
To be the wreck of promises and hopes
A Boy of Learning, and a Bard of Tropes;
But happy in my humble sphere had mov'd
Untroubled, unsuspected, unbelov'd.
To Barrett next, he has my thanks sincere,
For all the little knowledge I had here.
But what was knowledge? Could it here succeed?
When scarcely twenty in the town can read.
Could knowledge bring in interest to maintain
The wild expences of a Poets brain;
Disinterested Burgum never meant
To take my knowledge for his gain per cent.
When wildly squand'ring every thing I got,
On Books, and Learning, and the Lord knows what.
Could Burgum then, my Critic, Patron, Friend
Without security attempt to lend?
No, that would be imprudent in the man;
Accuse him of imprudence, if you can.
He promis'd, I confess, and seem'd sincere;
Few keep an honorary promise here.
I thank thee, Barrett, thy advice was right,
But 'twas ordain'd by Fate that I should write.
Spite of the prudence of this prudent place,
I wrote my mind, nor hid the Authors face.
Harris ere long, when reeking from the Press
My numbers make his self-importance less,
Will wrinkle up his face, and damn the day
And drag my body to the triple way—
Poor superstitious Mortals! wreak your hate
Upon my cold remains—
THIS is the last Will and Testament of me Thomas Chatterton of the City of Bristol; being sound in body, or it is the fault of my last Surgeon; the soundness of my mind, the Coroner and Jury are to be judges of, desiring them to take notice, that the most perfect Masters of Human Nature in Bristol distinguish me by the title of the Mad Genius; therefore, if I do a mad action, it is conformable to every action of my life, which savour'd of insanity.
Item. If after my death which will happen to-morrow night before eight o'clock, being the Feast of the Resurrection, the Coroner and Jury bring it in Lunacy, I will and direct, that Paul Farr,
Esq
and Mr. John Flower, at their joint expence, cause my body to be interred in the Tomb of my Fathers, and raise the Monument over my body to the height of four feet five inches, placing the present flat stone on the top, and adding 6 Tablets.
On the
first
to be engraved in Old English Characters
Vous qui par ici pasez
Whatever obsolete spelling or mistakes may be observed here, either in the French or the Latin, the Reader is desired to consider as the Author's, not the Editor's.
Pur l'ame Guateroine Chatterton priez
Le cors di oi ici gist
L'ame receyve Thu Crist. MCCX.
On the
second
Tablet in Old English Characters
Orate pro animabus Alanus Chatterton, et Alicia
Whatever obsolete spelling or mistakes may be observed here, either in the French or the Latin, the Reader is desired to consider as the Author's, not the Editor's.
Uxeris ejus, qui quidem Alanus obict x die mensis Novemb. M,CCCCXV, quorum animabus propinetur Deus Amen.
On the
third
Tablet in Roman Characters
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON, Subchaunter of the Cathedral of this City, whose Ancestors were Residents of St. Mary Redcliffe since the year 1140. He died the 7th of August 1752.
On the
fourth
Tablet in Roman Characters.
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON; Reader judge not; if thou art a Christian—believe that he shall be judged by a Superior Power—to that Power alone is he now answerable.
On the
fifth
and
sixth
Tablets which shall front each other
Atchievements viz. On the one, vest, a fess; or, crest, a mantle of estate, gules, supported by a spear, sable, headed, or, on the other, or, a fess vest, crest, a cross of Knights Templars.—And I will and direct that if the Coroners Inquest bring it in felo-de-se, the said monument shall be notwithstanding erected. And if the said Paul Farr and John Flower have souls so Bristolish as to refuse this my request, they will transmit a copy of my Will to the Society for supporting the Bill of Rights, whom I hereby empower to build the said monument according to the aforesaid directions. And if they the said Paul Farr and John Flower should build the said monument; I will and direct that the 2d Edition of my Kew Gardens, shall be dedicated to them in the following Dedication.—To Paul Farr and John Flower, Esqrs this Book is most humbly dedicated by the Author's Ghost.
Item. I give all my vigour and fire of youth to Mr. G— C—,being sensible he is most in want of it.
Item. From the same charitable motive, I give and bequeath unto the Reverend Mr. C—n senior all my humility. To Mr. B—m all my Prosody and Grammar, likewise one moiety of my modesty, the other moiety to any young Lady who can prove without blushing that she wants that valuable commodity. To Bristol all my spirit and difinterestedness, parcels of goods, unknown on her quay since the days of Canning and Rowley! 'Tis true a charitable Gentleman, one Mr. Colston, smuggled a considerable quantity of it, but it being proved that he was a Papist, the Worshipful Society of Aldermen endeavour to throttle him with the Oath of Allegiance. I leave also my Religion to Dr. C— B—, D— of B—, hereby empowering the
Sub-Spirit
to strike him on the head when he goes to sleep in Church—My powers of utterance I give to the Reverend Mr. B—n, hoping he will employ them to a better purpose than reading Lectures on the Immortality of the Soul: I leave the Reverend Mr. C— some little of my free thinking, that he may put on spectacles of reason and see how vilely he is duped in believing the Scriptures literally. I wish he and his brother G— would know how far I am their real Enemy, but, I have an unlucky way of raillery, and when the strong fit of Satire is upon me I spare neither friend nor foe. This is my excuse for what I have said of them elsewhere. I leave Mr. Clayfield the sincerest thanks my gratitude can give, and I will and direct that whatever any person may think the pleasure of reading my Works worth, they immediately pay their own valuation to him, since it is then become a lawful debt to me and to him as my Executor in this case. I leave my Moderation to the Politicians on both sides the question. I leave my Generosity to our present Right Worshipful Mayor, T— H—, Esq. I give my Abstinence to the Company at the Sheriffs Annual Feast in general, more particularly the Aldermen.
Item. I give and bequeath to Mr. M— M— a mourning Ring with this Motto,
"Alas! poor Chatterton!"
provided he pays for it himself.—Item. I leave the young Ladies all the Letters they have had from me, assuring them that they need be under no apprehensions from the appearance of my Ghost, for I die for none of them.—Item. I leave all my debts the whole not Five Pounds to the payment of the charitable and generous Chamber of Bristol, on penalty if refused, to hinder every Member from a good dinner by appearing in the form of a Bailiff. If in defiance of this terrible spectre, they obstinately persist in refusing to discharge my debts, let my two Creditors apply to the Supporters of the Bill of Rights.—Item. I leave my Mother and Sister to the protection of my Friends if I have any. Executed in the presence of Omniscience this 14th of April 1770.
THOs. CHATTERTON.
CODICIL.
It is my pleasure that Mr. Cocking and Miss Farley Print this my Will the first Saturday after my death.
T. C.
THE METHODIST.
MAY 1770.
SAYS Tom to Jack, 'tis very odd,
These Representatives of God,
In Color, way of life and evil,
Sould be so very like the Devil.
Jack, understand, was one of those,
Who mould Religion in the Nose,
A red hot Methodist; his face
Was full of Puritanic Grace,
His loose lank hair, his slow gradation,
Declar'd a late Regeneration;
Among the daughters long renown'd,
For standing upon holy ground;
Never in carnal battle beat,
Tho' sometimes forc'd to a retreat.
But C—t, Hero as he is,
Knight of
parable phiz,
When pliant Doxy seems to yield,
Courageously forsakes the field.
Jack, or to write more gravely, John
Thro' Hills of Wesley's Works had gone;
Could sing one hundred Hymns by rote;
Hymns which will sanctify the throte:
But some indeed compos'd so odly,
You'd swear 'twas bawdy Songs made Godly.
COLIN INSTRUCTED.
1770.
YOUNG Colin was as stout a boy
As ever gave a Maiden joy;
But long in vain he told his tale
To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale.
Ah why the whining Shepherd cried,
Am I alone your smiles denied,
I only tell in vain my tale
To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale.
True Colin, said the laughing Dame,
You only whimper out your flame,
Others do more than sigh their tale
To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale.
He took the hint &c.
A BURLESQUE CANTATA.
1770.
RECIT.
MOUNTED aloft in Bristols narrow Streets,
Where Pride and Luxury with meanness meets,
A sturdy Collier prest the empty sack,
A troop of thousands swarming on his back;
When sudden to his rapt extatic view
Rose the brown beauties of his red-hair'd Sue.
Music spontaneously echoed from his tongue,
And thus the Lover rather bawl'd, than sung.
AIR.
Zaunds! Prithee pretty Zue is it thee,
Odzookers I mun have a kiss.
A Sweetheart should always be free,
I whope you wunt take it amiss.
Thy peepers are blacker than a caul,
Thy carcase is sound as a sack,
Thy visage is whiter than ball,
Odzookers I mun have smack.
RECIT.
The swain descending, in his raptured arms
Held fast the Goddess, and despoil'd her charms.
Whilst lock'd in Cupid's amorous embrace,
His jetty
skinnis
met her red bronz'd face;
It seem'd the sun when labouring in eclipse.
And on her nose he stampt his sable lips,
Pleas'd—.
SONG. FANNY OF THE HILL.
Miss F. B—, on Radclif-Hill, Bristol.
1770.
IF gentle Love's immortal fire
Could animate the quill,
Soon should the rapture-speaking Lyre
Sing Fanny of the Hill. Betsy
My panting heart incessant moves,
No interval 'tis still;
And all my ravish'd nature loves
Sweet Fanny of the Hill. Betsy
Her dying soft expressive eye,
Her elegance must kill,
Ye Gods! how many thousands die
For Fanny of the Hill. Betsy
A love-taught tongue angelic air
A sentiment, a skill
In all the graces of the Fair,
Mark Fanny of the Hill. Betsy
Thou mighty Power, eternal Fate,
My happiness to fill,
O! bless a wretched Lover's state
With Fanny of the Hill. Betsy
The name of
Fanny,
which was first written, was afterwards cancelled, and that of
Betsy
substituted in its stead; but for what reason was best known to the Author.
BURLETTA. THE WOMAN OF SPIRIT.
1770.
Distort
Mr. Bannister
Councellor Latitat
Mr. Reinhold
Endorse
Master Cheney
Lady Tempest
Mr. Thompson
THE WOMAN OF SPIRIT.
ACT I. SCENE I.
LADY TEMPEST AND LATITAT.
I tell you Lady Tempest—
And I tell you Mr. Latitat in shall not be.—I'll have no Society of Antiquaries meet here: None but the honourable Members of the Coterie shall assemble here—you shall know.
Suspend your rage, Lady Tempest, and let me open my brief—have you not this day, moved by the instigation of the Devil, and not having the fear of God before your eyes, wilfully and wittingly, and maliciously driven all my friends out of my house. Was it done like a Woman of Quality?
It was done like a Woman of Spirit: A character, it shall ever be my task to maintain.
AIR.
Away with your maxims, and dull formal rules
The shackles of pleasure, and trammels of fools;
For Wisdom and Prudence I care not a straw
I'll act, as I please, for my Will is my Law.
But upon my soul Madam I have one more consideration which should especially move you to bridle your passion: for it spoils your face. When you knocked down Lord Rust with the Bust of Marcus Aurelius, you looked the very picture of the Alecto last taken out of the Herculaneum.
AIR.
Passion worse than age will plow
Furrows on the frowning brow:
Rage and passion will disgrace
Every beauty of the face:
Whil'st good nature will supply
Beauties, which can never die.
Mr. Latitat I wont be abused—Did I for this condescend to forget my quality and marry such a Tautology of Nothing—I will not be abused.
SCENE.
DISTORT, LATITAT, LADY TEMPEST.
Pray Madam what has enraged you? May I have the honour of knowing.
Mr. Distort shall be our Referee.
That is, if I please Sir.
Pray my Lady let me state the case, and you may afterwards make a reply—you must know Sir.—
Yes, Sir, you must know, this morning, Mr. Latitat had invited all his antiquated friends Lord Rust, Horatio Trefoil, Col. Tragedus, Professor Vase and Countefeit the Jew to sit upon a brass half-penny, which being a little worn, they have agreed, Nem. Con. to be an Otho.
And it is further necessary to be known, that, while we were all warm in debate upon the premises, my Lady made a forcible entry into the parlour, and seizing an antique Bust of Marcus Aurelius, of malice propense, and afore thought, did with three blows of the said Bust, knock down Anthony Viscount Rust, and—
And drove them all out of the house.
And furthermore—
Silence Mr. Latitat, I insist on the priviledge of an English Wife.
And moreover—
Nay Councellor, as I am your Referee, I command silence: Pray what do you lay your damages at?
My Lady has in her cabinet a Jupiter Tonans, which in spite of all my endeavours to open her eyes, she persists in calling an Indian Pagod, and upon condition of my receiving that, I drop the prosecution.
'Tis a trifle Madam let him have it, it may turn to account.
A very toy: He shall have it instantly on condition I have the use of my tongue.
AIR.
What are all your favourite joys
So it stands in the Original, erased.
What are our pleasures.
FINIS.