The Works of Henry Fielding Part 43

_Enter_ FIREBRAND.

_Fireb_. Thanks to the Sun for this desired encounter.

_Q. C. S_. Oh, priest! all's lost; our forces are o'erthrown-- Some gasping lie, but most are run away.

_Fireb_. I knew it all before, and told you too The Sun has long been out of humour with you.

_Q. C. S_. Dost thou, then, lay upon the Sun the faults Of all those cowards who forsook my cause?

_Fireb_. Those cowards all were most religious men: And I beseech thee, Sun, to shine upon them.

_Q. C. S_. Oh, impudence! and darest thou to my face?--

_Fireb_. Yes, I dare more; the Sun presents you this, [_Stabs her_.

Which I, his faithful messenger, deliver.

_Q. C. S_. Oh, traytor! thou hast murder'd Common Sense.

Farewel, vain world! to Ignorance I give thee, Her leaden sceptre shall henceforward rule.

Now, priest, indulge thy wild ambitious thoughts; Men shall embrace thy schemes, till thou hast drawn All worship from the Sun upon thyself: Henceforth all things shall topsy-turvy turn; Physick shall kill, and Law enslave the world; Cits shall turn beaus, and taste Italian songs, While courtiers are stock-jobbing in the city.

Places requiring learning and great parts Henceforth shall all be hustled in a hat, And drawn by men deficient in them both.

Statesmen--but oh! cold death will let me say No more--and you must guess _et caetera_. [_Dies_.

_Fireb_. She's gone! but ha! it may beseem me ill T' appear her murderer. I'll therefore lay This dagger by her side; and that will be Sufficient evidence, with a little money, To make the coroner's inquest find self-murder.

I'll preach her funeral sermon, and deplore Her loss with tears, praise her with all my art.

Good Ignorance will still believe it all. [_Exit_.

_Enter_ Queen IGNORANCE, &c.

_Q. Ign_. Beat a retreat; the day is now our own; The powers of Common Sense are all destroy'd; Those that remain are fled away with her.

I wish, Mr Fustian, this speech be common sense.

_Sneer_. How the devil should it, when she's dead?

_Fust_. One would think so, when a cavil is made against the best thing in the whole play; and I would willingly part with anything else but those two lines.

_Harl_. Behold! where welt'ring in her blood she lies.

I wish, sir, you would cut out that line, or alter it, if you please.

_Fust_. That's another line that I won't part with; I would consent to cut out anything but the chief beauties of my play.

_Harl_. Behold the b.l.o.o.d.y dagger by her side, With which she did the deed.

_Q. Ign_. 'Twas n.o.bly done!

I envy her her exit, and will pay All honours to her dust. Bear hence her body, And let her lie in state in Goodman's fields.

_Enter_ Messenger.

_Mess_. Madam, I come an envoy from Crane-court.

The great society that there a.s.semble Congratulate your victory, and request That firm alliance henceforth may subsist Between your majesty's society Of Grub-street and themselves: they rather beg That they may be united both in one.

They also hope your majesty's acceptance Of certain curiosities, which in That hamper are contain'd, wherein you'll find A horse's tail, which has a hundred hairs More than are usual in it; and a tooth Of elephant full half an inch too long; With turnpike-ticket like an ancient coin.

_Q. Ign_. We gratefully accept their bounteous gifts, And order they be kept with proper care, Till we do build a place most fit to hold These precious toys: tell your society We ever did esteem them of great worth, And our firm friends: and tell 'em 'tis our pleasure They do prepare to dance a jig before us.

[_Exit_ Messenger

My lords of Law and Physick, you shall find I will not be ungrateful for your service: To you, good Harlequin, and your allies, And you, Squeekaronelly, I will be A most propitious queen--But ha!

[_Music under the stage_.

What hideous music or what yell is this?

Sure 'tis the ghost of some poor opera tune.

_Sneer_. The ghost of a tune, Mr Fustian!

_Fust_. Ay, sir, did you never hear one before? I had once a mind to have brought the apparition of Musick in person upon the stage, in the shape of an English opera. Come, Mr Ghost of the Tune, if you please to appear in the sound of soft musick, and let the ghost of Common Sense rise to it.

[_Ghost of_ COMMON SENSE _rises to soft musick_.

_Ghost_. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears.

Caitiffs, avaunt! or I will sweep you off, And clean the land from such infernal vermin.

_Q. Ign_. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! haste, scamper off, My friends; we've kill'd the body, and I know The ghost will have no mercy upon us.

_Omnes_. A ghost! a ghost! a ghost! [_Run off_.

_Ghost_. The coast is clear, and to her native realms Pale Ignorance with all her host is fled, Whence she will never dare invade us more.

Here, though a ghost, I will my power maintain, And all the friends of Ignorance shall find My ghost, at least, they cannot banish hence; And all henceforth, who murder Common Sense, Learn from these scenes that, though success you boast.

You shall at last be haunted with her ghost.

_Sneer_. I am glad you make Common Sense get the better at last; I was under terrible apprehensions for your moral.

_Fust_. Faith, sir, this is almost the only play where she has got the better lately. But now for my epilogue: if you please to begin, madam.

EPILOGUE

GHOST.

The play once done, the epilogue, by rule, Should come and turn it all to ridicule; Should tell the ladies that the tragic bards, Who prate of Virtue and her vast rewards, Are all in jest, and only fools should heed 'em; For all wise women flock to mother Needham.

This is the method epilogues pursue, But we to-night in everything are new.

Our author then, in jest throughout the play, Now begs a serious word or two to say.

Banish all childish entertainments hence; Let all that boast your favour have pretence, If not to sparkling wit, at least to sense.

With soft Italian notes indulge your ear; But let those singers, who are bought so dear, Learn to be civil for their cheer at least, Nor use like beggars those who give the feast.

And though while musick for herself may carve, Poor Poetry, her sister-art, must starve; Starve her at least with shew of approbation, Nor slight her, while you search the whole creation For all the tumbling-sk.u.m of every nation.

Can the whole world in science match our soil?

Have they a LOCKE, a NEWTON, or a BOYLE?

Or dare the greatest genius of their stage With SHAKSPEARE or immortal BEN engage?

Content with nature's bounty, do not crave The little which to other lands she gave; Nor like the c.o.c.k a barley corn prefer To all the jewels which you owe to her.