SCENE, Bombardinion's Tent. Enter King and Bombardinion. Bom. This honour, royal Sir, fo realizes The royalty of your most royal actions, The dumb can only utter forth their praise; For we who fpeak, want words to tell our meaning, Here, fill the goblets with Phalernian wine; And while our monarch drinks, bid the fhrill trumpet Tell all the gods that we propine their healths. [Trumpet founds. King. Hold, Bombardinion: I esteem it fit, With fo much wine, to eat a little bit. Bom. See that the table inftantly be spread With all that art or Natnre can produce: Traverse from pole to pole; fail round the world : Bring ev'ry eatable that can be eat; The king fhall eat, though all mankind be starv'd. nute. Enter Cook. Cook. And it please your honour, there's fome cold pork in the pantry; I'll hafh it for his Majefty in a mi[Exit in a hurry. King. Hafh'd pork! Shall Chrononhotonthologos. Be fed with fwine's flesh, and at fecond hand ? Now, by the gods! thou doft infult us, general. Bom. The gods can witness that I little thought Your majefty to pork had fuch averfion! King. Away, thou traitor! doft thou mock thy mafter? [Strikes him. Bom. A blow! Shall Bombardinion take a blow? Blush, blush, thou fun! ftart back, thou rapid ocean! Hills, vales, feas, mountains, all commixing, crumble, And into chaos pulverize the world; For Bombardinion has receiv'd a blow, And Chrononhotonthologos fhall die. King. What means the traitor ? Bom. Traitor in thy teeth: Thus I defy thee. what have I done? [Draws. [Draws. [They fight; he kills the king. Go call a coach, and let a coach be call'd; But A But coach, coach, coach! O for a coach, ye gods! Returns with a Doctor. Bom. How fares your majefty? Doct. My Lord, he's dead. [Exit raving Bom. Ha, dead? impoffible! it cannot be ! Or by this hand thy foul fhall quit thy body. Doct. My Lord, he's paft the pow'r of phyfic: Bom. Then go to t'other world and fetch it back ; [Kills him. And if I find thou trifleft with me there, I come! your faithful Bombardinion comes? Enter Queen and others. [Kills himself. Ald. O horrible! horrible! and horrid'ft horror! All dead! ftone dead! irrecoverably dead! Oh! [All groan a tragedy groan. Queen. My husband dead! ye gods, what is't you mean, To make a widow of a virgin-queen? For, to my great misfortune, he, poor king, Tat. Why then, dear Madam, make no further pother; Were I your Majefty, I'd try another. Queen. I think 'tis beft to follow thy advice. Tat. I'll fit you with a husband in a trice. [Simpering Rig. Ay that I can, pleafe your Majefty: fo cere monies apart, let's proceed to the business. Kifles the Queen. Queen. Oh, but the mourning takes up all my care; I'm at a lofs what colour'd weeds to wear. Rig. O Madam, never talk of mourning; One ounce of mirth is worth a pound of forrow: Let's bed to-night, and then we'll wed to-morrow. I'll make thee a great man, my little Phofcophorny. [Afide to Aldib. Ald. I fcorn thy bounty; I'll be king or nothing: Draw, mifcreant, draw. [Rig. runs behind the Queen, Queen. Well, gentlemen, to make the matter eafy, I'll have you both; and that, I hope, will pleafe ye. [Takes each by the hand. And now, Tatlanthe, thou art all my care; Where fhall I find thce fuch another pair? Pity that one has ferv'd fo long, fo well, Should die a virgin, and lead apes in hell. Choose for yourself, dear girl, our empire round, Your portion is twelve hundred thousand pound. Tat. Thanks to your Majefty; give me the money, Let me alone to find myself a honey. Tatlanthe fings. Marriage may become a curse, No husband fhall e'er feize me. Queen fings. Treth, my girl, thou'rt in the right, To Aldib. and Rigdum. EPILOGUE. CUSTOM commands that something I fhould fay Critics, on you our author does depend; Be you bis champion, and his caufe defend. NECK I ACT I. SCENE, Aftreet. Enter MARTIN. AM fick as a dog of being a valet!-running after other people's bufinefs and neglecting my ownThis low life is the devil!-I've had a taste of the gentleman, and shall never lofe it. 'Tis thy own fault, my little Martin-Thou wouldst always play fmall games; when, had you but had the face to put yourself forward a little, fome well jointur'd widow had taken you into her poft chariot, and made your fortune at once, A fellow of my wit and fpirit fhould have broke twice and fet up again by this time. Enter Slip. Slip. Hey is not that that rafcal Martin yonder? Mar. |