Fancy, whose various fignre-tinctur'd vest Now rest, my Muse, but only rest to weep, Was ever changing to a different hue;

friend made dear by eve:y sacred tie; Her head with varied bays and flowrets drest, Unknown to me be comfort, peace, or sleep: Her eyes two spangles of the morning dew. Phillips is dead! 'tis pleasure then to die. With dancing attitude ske swept thy string; Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew, And now she soars, and now again descends; Short were the moments of his transient peace; And now reclining on the Zephyr's wing,

But melancholy robb’d him of those few, Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.

And this hath bid all future comfort cease. Peace, deckt in all the softness of the dore, And can the Muse be silent, Phillips gone! Over thy passions spread her silver plume; And am I still alive? My soul, arise! The rosy veil of harmony and love,

The robe of immortality put on, Hung on thy soul in one eternal bloom.

And meet tby Phillips in bis native skies. Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread

Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears,
Upon her best distinguish'd poet's head,

Observe in favour of an hobbling strain,
And taught his lyre the music of the spheres.

Neat as exported from the parent brain, Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train And each and every couplet I have penn'd, And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride,

’But little labour'd, and I never mend. Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,

And did at every frugal feast preside.
Black melancholy stealing to the shade,
With raging madness, frantic loud and dire,
Whose bloody band displays the reeking blade,

S U N D A Y,
Were strangers to thy beaven-directed lyre.
Content, who siniles in every frown of fate,
Wreath'd thy pacific brow and sooth'd thy ill;
In thy own virtues and thy genius great,

[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's handThe happy Muse laid every trouble still.


Hervenis, harping on the hackney'd text', But sce the sickening lamp of day retires,

By disquisitions is so sore perplex'd, And the meek evening shakes the dusky grey; He stammers, instantaneously is drawn, The west faint glinmers with the saffron fires, A border'd piece of inspiration lawn, And like thy life, O Phillips! flies away.

Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd,

Into his pineal gland the vapours glide;
Here, stretch'd upon this Heavey-ascending bill,
I'll wait the horrours of the coming night,

And now again we hear the doctor roar
I'll imitate the gently-plaintire rill;

On subjects be dissected thrice before;

I own at church I very seldom pray, And by the glare of lambient vapours write.

For vicars, stravgers to devotion, bray. * Wet with the dew the yellow hawthorns bow ; Sermons, tho' fowing from the sacred lawn, The rustic wł,istles thro' the echoing cave;

Are flimsy wires from reason's ingote?rawn; Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,

And to confess the truth, another cause And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave.

My every prayer and adoration draws;

In all the glaring tinctures of the bow, Now as the mantle of the evening swells

The ladies front me in celestial row; Upon iny mind, I feel a thick’ning gloom; (Tho' when black melancholy damps my joys, Ah could i charm by necromantic spells,

i call them Nature's trifles, airy toys; The soul of Phillips, from the deathy tomb! Yet when the goddess Reason guides the straio,

I think them, what they are, a heavenly train;) Then would we wander thro' this darken'd vale; The amorous roiling, the black sparkling ere, In converse such as heavenly spirits use,

The gentle hazle, and the optic sly; And, bore upon the pinions of the gale,

The easy shape, the panting semi-globes, Hymn the Creator, and exert the Muse.

'The frankness which each latent charm disrobes;

The melting passions, and the sweet severe, But, horrour to reflection! now no more,

The easy amble, the majestic air; Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain! The tap’ring waste, the silver-mantled aros, When, doubting whether they might not adore, All is one vast variety of charms. Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain.

Say, who but sages stretch'd beyond their span,

Italian singers, or an unman'd man, See! see! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn,

Can see Elysium spread upon their brow, Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,

And to a drousy curate's sermon bow. Sare where into a blasted oak withdrawn

If (but 'tis seldom) no fair female face The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.

Attracts my notice by some glowing grace,

• Note on this verse by Chatterton, “ Expunged as too lowery for grief.”

'These lines occur in the Extract from Ker Gardens, p. 477.

Around the monuments I cast my eyes,

AIR. And see absurdities and nonsense rise.

Sighing, Here rueful-visag'd angels seem to tell

Dying, With weeping eyes, a soul is gone to Hell ;

Lying, There a child's head supported by duck's wings,

Frying, With toothless mouth a hallelujah sings:

In the furnace of desire; In fun'ral pile eternal marble burns,

And a good Christian seems to sleep in urns.

A self-drawn curtain bids the reader see
An honorable Welchman's pedigree;

Oh! how slow the hours retire!
A rock of porph'ry darkens half the place,

When the busy heart is beating, And virtues blubber with no awkward grace;

When the bosom's all on fire, Yet, strange to tell, in all the dreary gloom

Oh! how welcome is the meeting!
That makes the sacred honous of the tomb,

Oh! how slow the hours retire!
No quarter'd coats above the bel appear,
No batter'd arms, or golden corsets there.

But seemy fury comes; by Styx I tremble:
I'll creep aside'tis folly to dissemble.




RECITATIVE. L'This drama, with the songs, was printed sepa

rately in the year 1795, from a MS. of Chatter. See, see, my good man steals aside! ton in the possession of Mr. Atterbury.]

In spite of his thunder,

I make him knock under,

And own the superior right of a bride.


Mr. Reinhold.
Bacchus, Mr. Bannister.

How happy the life
Master Cheney.

Of a governing wife,
Mrs. Thompson.

How charming, how easy, the swift minutes pass;

Let her do what she will,

The husband is still,
Act I, Scene I.

And but for his horns you would think him an ass.

How happy the spouse

In his diguify'd brows;
I swear by Styx, this usage is past bearing;

How worthy with herves and monarchs to class:

Both above and below,
My lady Juno ranting, tearing, swearing!
Why, what the devil will my godship do,

Experience will show,

But take off the horns, and each husband's an ass. If blows and thunder cannot tame a shrew? AIR.

JUPITER, Tho' the loud thunder rumbles,


[aside. Tho' storms rend the sky; Yet louder she grumbles,

Zounds, I 'll take heart of grace, and brave her And sweils the sharp cry.


And, if my courage holds, egad I'll strap her:
Her jealousy teasing,

Thro' all Olympus shall the thunders roll,
Disgusting her form:

And Earth shall echo to the mustard bowl,
Her inusic as pleasing

Should she prove sturdy, by the Lord l’il heave
As pigs in a storm.



Down to some brandy-shop, this noisy griev-
I fly her embraces,

To wenches more fair;
And leave her wry faces,

What means this horrid rattle?
Cold sighs and despair.

And must that tongue of riot

Wage one eternal battle

With happiness and quiet?
And oh! ye tedious minutes, steal away;

Come evening, close the folding doors of day;
Night, spread thy sable petticoat around,

And sow thy poppies on the slumb'ring ground;
Then, raving into love, and drunk with charms, What means your saucy question?
I'll lose my Juno's tongue in Maja's arms.

D'ye think I mind your bluster?


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Your godship's always best in

A method I'll pursue, Words, thunder, noise and Auster.

l'll sooth him, tickle, coax hin, Then I shall have my due.



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He neither fills my freezing bed, my heart, nor

My vaiuly-folding arms: Oh! such a partner!


When a woman's ty'd down

See how she flies, whilst warring passions shake To a spiritless log;

her, Let her fondle or frown,

Nor thought nor lightning now can overtake her. Yet still he's a clog.

AIR. Let her please ber own mind,

How often in the marriage state, Abroad let her roam;

The wise, the sensible, the great, Abroad she inay find,

Find misery and woe: What she can't find at home.

Though, should we dive in Nature's laws,

To trace the first primeval cause,

The wretch is self-made so.


Love's a pleasure, solid, real,

Nothing fanciful, ideal,
Ho! mistress Juno-here's a storm a brewing-

'Tis the bliss of humankind; Your devil of a spouse is always doing

All the other passions move, Pray step aside-This evening, I protest,

In subjection under love, Jove and miss Maia-you may guess the rest

'Tis the tyrant of the mind. JUNO.

SCENE VI. dlow! What! When! Where! Nay, prithee now

CUPID, Bacchus with a bowl.
unfold it,


RECITATIVE. 'Gad—so I will; for faith I cannot hold it.

Odsniggers, t'other draught, 'tis dev'lish heady, His mighty godship in a fiery flurry,

Olympus turns about; (staggers) steady, boys, Met me just now- -Confusion to his hurry!

steady. I stopt his way, forsooth, and, with a thwack,

AIR. He laid a thunderbolt across my back: Bless me! I feel it now my short ribs ache yet, If Jove should pretend that he governs the skies, I vow'd revenge, and now by Styx I'll take it. I swear by this liquor his thundership lies; Miss Maja, in her chamber, after nine,

A slave to his bottle, he governs by wine, Receives the thund'rer, in his robes divine;

And all must confess he's a servant of mine, I undermin'd it all; see, here's the letter:

AIR CHANGES. Could dukes spell worse, whose tutors spelt no better?

Rosy, sparkling, powerful wine,
You know false-spelling now is much the fashion- All the joys of life are thine;

Search the drinking world around,

Bacchus ev'ry where sits crown'd:
Lend me your drops-Oh! I shall swoon with

Whilst we lift the flowing bowl, passion!


Unregarded thunders roll.
I'll tear her eyes out! Oh! I'll stab-I'll stran-

And worse than lover's English, her I'll mangle. Since man, as says each bearded sage,

Is but a piece of clay,

Whose mystic moisture lost by age, Nay, pray be calm; l’ve bit of an expedient

To dust it falls away. To do you right

'Tis orthodox beyond a doubt,

That drought will only fret it:
Sweet Cupid, your obedient-

To make the brittle stuff hold out,

Is thus to drink and wet it.

Tie Maia by the leg; steal in her stead,
Into the smuggled raptures of her bed;

Ah! master Cupid, 'slife I did not s'ye,
When the god enters, let him take possession.

'Tis excellent Champagne, and so here's t'ye:

I brought it to these gardens as imported,

'Tis bloody strong, you need not twice be courted. An excellent scheme! My joy 's beyond expres- Come drink, my boysion!


Hence, monster, hence! I scorn thy flowing bowl Nay, never stay; delaying may confute it. It prostitutes the sense, degenerates the soul. JUNO.

BACCHUS. O happy thought! I By to execute it.

Gadso, methinks the youngster's woundy moral! (Exit Juno. He plays with ethics like a bell and coral.




'Tis madness to think,

You soul of a brimmer-
To judge ere you drink,

The bottom all wisdom contains:

You tool of the fair-
Then let you and I

Now drink the bowl dry,
We both shall grow wise for our pains.

You moveable tun,
You tippler, you sot-

Pray, keep your distance, beast, and cease your

Nay, then the work's done, Or with this dart, I'll send you catterwauling.

My arrow is shot.

[Bacchus throws the contents of the bowl in Cupid's fuce, AIR.

and runs off. The charms of wine cannot compare With the soft raptures of the fair;

SCENE VII. Can drunken pleasures ever find

CUPII). A place with love and womankind ?

RECITATI VĖ. Can the full bowl pretend to vie

Kind usage this-it sorely shall befall him With the soft languish of the eye?

Here's my best arrow, and by Heav'n I'll maul Can the mad roar our passions move,


[him; Like gentle breathing sighs of love?

Revenge! Revenge! Oh, how I long to wound BACCHUS.

Now all the pangs of slighted love confound him
Go whine and complain

To the girls of the plain,

No more in the bowl
And sigh out your soul ere she come to the mind;

His brutalized soul
My mistress is here,

Shall find a retreat from the lass :
And faith I don't fear;

I'll pay him,
I always am happy, she always is kind

And slay him,
His love shall be dry as his glass.

A pox o' your lasses,
A shot of my glasses
Your arrow surpasses;
For nothing but asses

Will draw in your team :

BACCHUS, with his bowl on his head.
Whilst thus I am drinking,

My misery sinking;
The cannikin clinking,

Alas! alas ! how fast
I'm lost to all thinking,

I feel ny spirits sinking;
And care is a dream.

The joys of life are past,

I've lost the power of drinking :

Egad, I find at last,
Provoking insolence!

The heav'nly charın of tinking,

And in the sound I cast

The miseries of thinking.
What words it utters!
Alas! poor little creature, how it sputters !


I'm plaguy ill-in dev'lish bad condition

What shall I do-I'll send for a physician: Away, you drunken wild

But then the horrid fees--aye, there's the questionBACCHUS.

'Tis losing all a man's estate in jesting; Away, you silly child

Whilst nurses and apothecaries partake [ache.

Zounds, this will never do, 'twill make my heart CUPID.

Come then, ye fidlers, play up t'other bout,
Fly, or else I'll wound thy soul,

I've a new nostrum, and I'll sing it out.

Zounds! I'll drown thee in the bowl.

Scrape, ye fidlers, tinkle, tinkle,

Music makes my twinklers twinkle

You rascally broacher,

You hogshead of liquor;


You shadow, you poacher;


Aha!-bring me a stick here

I'll give you a trimmer,
You bladder of air-

O the sweet charms of tinkle, tinkle!

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