John Philips

The Dun

THUS, while my joyless minutes tedious flow,
With looks demure, and silent pace, a dun—
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men-
To my aerial citadel ascends.

With vocal heel thrice thund'ring at my gate,
With hideous accent thrice he calls. I know
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.
What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd,
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly

Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect
Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews
My shudd'ring limbs, and, wonderful to tell,
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech,
So horrible he seems! His faded brow
Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,
And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints,
Disastrous acts forebode. In his right hand
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,
With characters and figures dire inscrib'd,
Grievous to mortal eyes. Ye gods, avert

Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks
Another monster not unlike himself,

Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd

A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods

With force incredible and magic charms
First have endu'd. If he his ample palm
Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay

Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch
Obsequious as whilom knights were wont,
To some enchanted castle is convey'd,
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains
In durance strict detain him, till, in form
Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware ye debtors—when ye walk, beware!
Be circumspect! Oft with insidious ken.
This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallow'd touch. So, poets sing,
Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,
Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice
Sure ruin. So her disembowel'd web
Arachne in a hall, or kitchen, spreads,

Obvious to vagrant flies; she secret stands
Within her woven cell; the humming prey,
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils
Inextricable, nor will aught avail
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue;
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,
And butterfly proud of expanded wings
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares,
Useless resistance make: with eager strides,
She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils;
Then, with envenom'd jaws the vital blood
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave
Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.

-"The Splendid Shilling" (Parody on Milton.)

Henry Carey

A Tragical Tragedy's Ending

KING CHRONON HOTONTHOLOGOS, GENERAL BOMBARDINION, Cook, Two LADIES.

Bomb. This honour, royal sir, so royalizes

The royalty of your most royal actions,

The dumb can only utter forth your praise,

For we, who speak, want words to tell our meaning.

Here, fill the goblet with Falernian wine,

And, while our monarch drinks, bid the shrill trumpet
Tell all the gods that we propine their healths.

King. Hold, Bombardinion! I esteem it fit,

With so much wine, to eat a little bit.

Bomb. See that the table instantly be spread

With all that art and nature can produce;

Traverse from pole to pole; sail round the globe,
Bring every eatable that can be eat.

The king shall eat, tho' all mankind be starv'd.

Cook. I am afraid his Majesty will be starv'd before I can run round the world for a dinner. Besides, where's the money?

King. Ha, dost thou prattle, contumacious slave? Guards, seize the villain! Broil him, fry him, stew him! Ourselves shall eat him out of mere revenge.

Cook. Oh, pray, your Majesty, spare my life! There's some nice cold pork in the pantry. I'll hash it for your Majesty in a minute.

King. Be thou first hash'd in hell, audacious slave! (Kills him, and turns to BOMBARDINION.)

Hash'd pork! Shall Chrononhotonthologos

Be fed with swine's-flesh, and at second-hand?
Now, by the gods, thou dost insult us, General!

Bomb. The gods can witness that I little thought
Your Majesty to other flesh than this

Had aught the least propensity.

(Points to the LADIES.)

King. Is this a dinner for a hungry monarch?

Bomb. Monarchs as great Chrononhotonthologos

Have made a very hearty meal of worse.

King. Ha, traitor! Dost thou brave me to my teeth? Take this reward, and learn to mock thy master.

(Strikes him.)

Bomb. A blow! Shall Bombardinion take a blow? Blush, blush, thou sun! Start back, thou rapid ocean! Hills, vales, seas, mountains, all commixing, crumble, And into chaos pulverize the world;

For Bombardinion has received a blow,

And Chrononhotonthologos shall die.

(Draws,

while the LADIES run off, crying, "Help! Murder!") King. What means the traitor? Bomb.

Thus I defy thee!

Traitor in thy teeth,

(They fight; he kills the King.)

Ha! What have I done?

Go, call a coach, and let a coach be call'd;
And let the man that calls it be the caller;

And, in his calling, let him nothing call,

But "Coach, coach, coach!" Oh, for a coach, ye gods!

(Returns with DOCTOR.)

Bomb. How fares your Majesty?

(Exit, raving.)

Doct.

My lord, he's dead. Bomb. Ha! Dead? Impossible! It cannot be !

I'd not believe it, tho' himself should swear it.

Go, join his body to his soul again,

Or, by this light, thy soul shall quit thy body!

Doct. My lord, he's far beyond the power of physic;

His soul has left his body and this world.

Bomb. Then go to t'other world and fetch it back,

And if I find thou triflest with me there,

I'll chase thy shade through myriads of orbs,
And drive thee far beyond the verge of Nature.
Ha-Call'st thou, Chrononhotonthologos?
I come! your faithful Bombardinion comes!
He comes in worlds unknown to make new wars,
And gain thee empires num'rous as the stars.

Enter LORDS ALDIBORONTIPHOSCOPHORNIO

(Kills him.)

(Kills himself.)

and RIGDUM

FUNNIDOS, the LADY TATLANTHE, and QUEEN FADLADI

NIDA.

Aldi. Oh, horrid, horrible, and horrid'st horror!

Our king, our general, our cook, our doctor!

All dead-stone dead! Irrevocably dead!

O-h!

(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,

Has left me so. Ain't that a wretched thing?

Tat. Why, then, dear madam, make no further pother; Were I your Majesty, I'd try another.