Young. No, Dick, you must pardon me. ACT I. nished alike. A maniere, a tiresome sameness, throughout. Bev. There you will excuse me; I am sure there is no want of variety. Young. No! then let us have a detail. Come, Dick, give us a bill of the play. Bev. First, you know, there's Juliet's uncle. Young. What, sir Thomas Lofty! the modern Midas, or, rather (as fifty dedications will tell Bev. To a fellow of your observation and turn,you), the Pollio, the Atticus, the patron of geI should think, now, such a scene a most delicate treat. Young. Delicate! Palling, nauseous, to a dreadful degree. To a lover, indeed, the charms of the niece may palliate the uncle's fulsome formality. Bev. The uncle! ay; but then, you know, he is only one of the group. Young. That's true; but the figures are all fi nius, the protector of arts, the paragon of poets, decider of merit, chief justice of taste, and sworn appraiser to Apollo and the tuneful Nine. Ha, ha! Oh, the tedious, insipid, insufferable coxcomb! Bev. Nay, now, Frank, you are too extr ava gant. He is universally allowed to have tast sharp-judging Adriel, the muse's friend, himself a muse. Young. Taste! by whom? underling bards that he feeds, and broken booksellers that he bribes. Look ye, Dick; what raptures you please when Miss Lofty is your theme, but expect no quarter for the rest of the family. I tell thee, once for all, Lofty is a rank impostor, the Bufo of an illiberal, mercenary tribe: he has neither genius to create, judgment to distinguish, nor generosity to reward; his wealth has gained him flattery from the indigent, and the haughty insolence of his pretence, admiration from the ignorant. Voila le portrait de votre oncle! Now on to the text. Beo. The ingenious and erudite Mr Rust. Young. What, old Martin the medal-monger? Bev. The same, and my rival in Juliet. Young. Rival! what, Rust? why, she's too modern for him, by a couple of centuries. Martin! why he likes no heads but upon coins. Married! the mummy! Why, 'tis not above a fortnight ago, that I saw him making love to the figure without a nose in Somerset-gardens: I caught him stroaking the marble plaits of her gown, and asked him if he was not ashamed to take such liberties with ladies in public? Beo. What an inconstant old scoundrel it is! Young. Oh, a Dorimont. But how came this about? what could occasion the change? was it in the power of flesh and blood to seduce this adorer of virtù from his marble and porphyry? Bev. Juliet has done it; and, what will surprise you, his taste was a bawd to the business. Young. Prithee explain. Bev. Juliet met him last week at her uncle's: he was a little pleased with the Greek of her profile; but, on a closer inquiry, he found the turn-up of her nose to exactly resemble the bust of the princess Pompæa. Young. The chaste moiety of the amiable Nero? Bev. The same. Young. Oh, the deuce! then your business was done in an instant? Bev. Immediately. In favour of the tip, he offered chart blanche for the rest of the figure; which, as you may suppose, was instantly caught at. Young. Doubtless. But who have we here? Bev. This is no of Lofty's companions, a West Indian, of an ove grown fortune. He saves me the trouble of a portrait. This is sir Peter Pepperpot. Enter SIR PETER PEPPERPOT, and two Blacks. Sir Pet. Careless scoundrels! hark'e, rascals! I'll banish you home, you dogs! you shall back, and broil in the sun. Mr Bever, your humble! Sir, I am your entirely devoted. Bev. You seem moved! what has been the matter, sir Peter? Ser Pet. Ay, lad, and a glorious cargo of turtle! It was lucky I went to Brighthelmstone; I nicked the time to a hair; thin as a lath, and a stomach as sharp as a shark's: never was in finer condition for feeding. Bev. Have you a large importation, sir Peter? Sir Pet. Nine; but seven in excellent order: the captain assures me they greatly gained ground on the voyage. Bev. How do you dispose of them? Sir Pet. Four to Cornhill, three to Almack's, and the two sickly ones I shall send to my borough in Yorkshire. Young. Ay! what, have the provincials a relish for turtle? Sir Pet. Sir, it is amazing how this country improves in turtle and turnpikes; to which (give me leave to say) we, from our part of the world, have not a little contributed. Why formerly, sir, a brace of bucks on the mayor's annual day was thought a pretty moderate blessing. we, sir, have polished their palates: Why, sir, not the meanest member in my corporation but can distinguish the pash from the pee. Young. Indeed!' But Sir Pet. Ay, and sever the green from the shell with the skill of the ablest anatomist. Young. And are they fond of it? Sir Pet. Oh, that the consumption will tell you. The stated allowance is six pounds to an alderman, and five to each their wives. Bev. A plentiful provision. Sir Pet. But there was never known any waste. The mayor, recorder, and rector, are permitted to eat as much as they please. Young. The entertainment is pretty expensive? Sir Pet. Land-carriage and all. But I contrived to smuggle the last that I sent them. Bev. Smuggle! I don't understand you. Sir Pet. Why, sir, the rascally coachman had always charged me five pounds for the carriage. Damned dear! Now, my cook going at the same time into the country, I made him clap a capuchin upon the turtle, and for thirty shillings put him an inside passenger in the Doncaster fly. Young. A happy expedient! Bev. Oh, sir Peter has infinite humour. Sir Pet. Yes; but the frolic had like to have proved fatal. Young. How so? Sir Pet. The maid at the Rummer, at Hatfield, popped her head into the coach, to know if Sir Pet. Matter! why, I am invited to dinner the company would have any breakfast: ecod, Young. Taste! by whom? untering pers that he feeds, and brokes ostles tur bribes. Look ve, Dick; what raptures Vil Deer when Miss Lofty is your theme tu expect a quarter for the rest of the famix. I to the once for all, Lofty is a rans impostor, the b of an illiberal, mercenary tribe: TE DIS genius to create, judgment to disaugus 15 generosity to reward; his wea be called s flattery from the indigent, and the ballet me lence of his pretence, admiration from the rant. Voila le portrait de votre ance. Now i to the text. Beo. The ingenious and erudite Mr Ras Young. Rival! what, Rust? way, she's te modern for him, by a couple of centuries. Mas tin! why he likes no heads bar apo ruiss. Mrried! the nmmy! Why, 'tis not above a furnight ago, that I saw him masing wire to be s gure without a nose in Somerset-gardens: I cant him stroaking the marble plaits of her rows, acit asked him if he was not ashamed to take suct: liberties with ladies in public? Beo. What an inconstant old scoundrel z a Young. Oh, a Dorimont. But base fo about? what could occasion the change we r in the power of flesh and blood to secure the adorer of virra from his martre and porpeni Bev. Juliet has done it; and, what vi surprise you, his taste was a band to the busiems. Young. Prithee explain. Bev. Juliet met him last week at her unges he was a little pleased with the Greek of ter profile; but, on a closer inquiry, he found the turn-up of her nose to exactly resemble the bus of the princess Pompaa. Young. The chaste moiety of the amabe Nero? less scoundrels! hart'e, rewa one, you dogs! you stau back. in. Mr Bever, your bumble! tirely devoted. moved! what has been the Young. How so? Ser Pet. The maid at the Rummer, at Hatfield, popped her head into the coach, to know it r! why, I am invited to dinner the company would have any breakfast: ecod. the turtle, sir, laid hold of her nose, and slapped her face with his fins, till the poor devil fell into a fit. Ha, ha, ha! Young. Oh, an absolute Rabelais! Bev. What, I reckon, sir Peter, you are going to the squire? Sir Pet. Yes; I extremely admire sir Thomas: you know this is his day of assembly; I suppose you will be there? I can tell you, you are a wonderful favourite. Bev. Am I? Sir Pet. He says your natural genius is fine; and, when polished by his cultivation, will surprise and astonish the world. Bev. I hope, sir, I shal! have your voice with the public? Sir Pet. Mine! O fie, Mr Bever! Bev. Come, come, you are no inconsiderable patron. Sir Pet. He, he, he! Can't say but I love to encourage the arts. Bev. And have contributed largely yourself. Young. What, is sir Peter an author? Sir Pet. O fic! what, me? a mere dabbler; have blotted my fingers, 'tis true. Some sonnets, that have not been thought wanting in salt. Bev. And your epigrams. Sir Pet. Not entirely without point. Bev. But come, sir Peter, the love of the arts is not the sole cause of your visits to the house you are going to. Sir Pet. I don't understand you Bev. Miss Juliet, the niece. Sir Pet. O fie! what chance have I there? Indeed, if lady Pepperpot should happen to pop off Bev. I don't know that. You are, sir Peter, a dangerous man: and, were I a father or uncle, I should not be a little shy of visits. your Sir Pet. Psha! dear Bever, you banter! Bev. And (unless I am extremely out in my guess), that lady Sir Pet. Hey! what, what, dear Bever? thousand other particulars, that at present I can't recollect. Sir Pet. Why, dear Bever, to tell thee the truth, I have always admired Miss Juliet, and a delicate creature she is: sweet as a sugarcane, straight as a bamboo, and her teeth as white as a negro's. Beo. Poetic, but true. Now only conceive, sir Peter, such a plantation of perfections to be devoured by that caterpillar, Rust. Sir Pet. A liquorish grub! Are pine-apples for such muckworms as he? I'll send him a jar of citrons and ginger, and poison the pipkin. Bev. No, no. Sir Pet. Or invite him to dinner, and mix rat'sbane along with his curry. Bev. Not so precipitate: I think we may defeat him without any danger. Sur Pet. How, how? Sir Pet. Gone. You know he was to dedicate his volume of fables to me: so 1 gave him thirty pounds to get my arms engraved, to prefix (by way of print) to the frontispiece; and, O grief of griefs! the doctor has moved off with the money. I'll send you Miss Juliet. [Exit. Ber. There, now, is a special protector! the Mæcenas. Sir Pet. May I never eat a bit of green fat if arts, I think, can't but flourish under such a I do! Bev. Hints have been dropped. Sir Pet. The devil! Come a little this way. Bev. Well-made: not robust and gigantic, 'tis true; but extremely genteel. Sir Pet. Indeed! Young. Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool. Bev. True; but then, to justify the dispensation, From hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Fortunes to booksellers, to authors bread. Young. The distribution is, I own, a little unequal; and here comes a melancholy instancepoor Dick Dactyl, and his publisher, Puff. Enter DACTYL aud PUFF. Puff. Why, then, Mr Dactyl, carry them to somebody else; there are people enough in the trade. But I wonder you would meddle with poetry; you know it rarely pays for the paper. |