_Kep_. What are you?
_Scar_. Two neighbouring Princes to your vast Dominion.
_Har_. Knights of the Sun, our honourable Titles, And fight for that fair Mortal, _Mopsophil_.
_Mop_. Bless us!--my two precious Lovers, I'll warrant; well, I had better take up with one of them, than lie alone to Night.
_Scar_. Long as two Rivals we have lov'd and hop'd, Both equally endeavour'd, and both fail'd.
At last by joint Consent, we both agreed To try our Titles by the Dint of Lance, And chose your Mightiness for Arbitrator.
_Kep_. The Emperor gives Consent.
[_They both all arm'd--with gilded Lances and Shields of Black, with golden Suns painted. The Musick plays a fighting Tune. They fight at Barriers, to the Tune_.--Harlequin _is often foil'd, but advances still; at last_ Scaramouch _throws him, and is Conqueror; all give Judgment for him_.
_Kep_. The Emperor pronounces you are Victor.-- [_To_ Scar.
_Doct_. Receive your Mistress, Sir, as the Reward of your undoubted Valour-- [_Presents_ Mopsophil.
_Scar_. Your humble Servant, Sir, and _Scaramouch_ returns you humble Thanks. [_Puts off his Helmet_.
_Doct_. Ha,--_Scaramouch_!
[_Bawls out, and falls in a Chair. They all go to him_.
My Heart misgives me--Oh, I am undone and cheated every way.
[_Bawling out_.
_Kep_. Be patient, Sir, and call up all your Virtue, You're only cur'd, Sir, of a Disease That long has reign'd over your nobler Faculties.
Sir, I am your Physician, Friend and Counsellor; It was not in the Power of Herbs or Minerals, Of Reason, common Sense, and right Religion, To draw you from an Error that unmann'd you.
_Doct_. I will be patient, Gentlemen, and hear you.
--Are not you _Ferdinand_?
_Kep_. I am,--and these are Gentlemen of Quality, That long have lov'd your Daughter and your Niece; _Don Cinthio_ this, and this is _Don Charmante_, The Vice-Roy's Nephews both.
Who found as Men--'twas impossible to enjoy 'em, And therefore try'd this Stratagem.
_Cin_. Sir, I beseech you, mitigate your Grief, Although indeed we are but mortal Men, Yet we shall love you, serve you, and obey you.
_Doct_. Are not you then the Emperor of the Moon?
And you the Prince of _Thunderland_?
_Cin_. There's no such Person, Sir.
These Stories are the Fantoms of mad Brains, To puzzle Fools withal--the Wise laugh at 'em-- Come, Sir, you shall no longer be impos'd upon.
_Doct_. No Emperor of the Moon, and no Moon World!
_Char_. Ridiculous Inventions.
If we 'ad not lov'd you you'ad been still impos'd on; You had brought a Scandal on your learned Name, And all succeeding Ages had despis'd it.
[Doct. _leaps up_.
_Doct_. Burn all my Books and let my study blaze, Burn all to Ashes, and be sure the Wind Scatter the vile contagious monstrous Lyes.
--Most Noble Youths--you've honour'd me with your Alliance, and you, and all your Friends, Assistances in this glorious Miracle, I invite to Night to revel with me.--Come all and see my happy Recantation of all the Follies, Fables have inspir'd till now. Be pleasant to repeat your Story, to tell me by what kind degrees you cozen'd me.
I see there's nothing in Philosophy-- [_Gravely to himself_.
Of all that writ, he was the wisest Bard, who spoke this mighty Truth--
"He that knew all that ever Learning writ, Knew only this--that he knew nothing yet."
[_Exeunt_.
EPILOGUE,
To be spoken by _Mrs. Cooke_.
_With our old Plays, as with dull Wife it fares, To whom you have been marry'd tedious Years.
You cry--She's wondrous good, it is confessed, But still 'tis_ Chapon Bouille _at the best; That constant Dish can never make a Feast: Yet the pall'd Pleasure you must still pursue, You give so small Incouragement for new; And who would drudge for such a wretched Age, Who want the Bravery to support one Stage?
The wiser Wits have now new Measures set, And taken up new Trades that they may hate.
No more your nice fantastick Pleasures serve, Your Pimps you pay, but let your Poets starve, They long in vain for better Usage hop'd, Till quite undone and tir'd, they dropt and dropt; Not one is left will write for thin third Day, Like desperate Pickeroons, no Prize no Pay; And when they have done their best, the Recompence Is, Damn the Sot, his Play wants common Sense, Ill-natured Wits, who can so ill requite The drudging Slaves, who for your Pleasure write.
Look back on flourishing_ Rome, _ye proud Ingrates, And see how she her thriving Poets treats: Wisely she priz'd 'em at the noblest Rate, As necessary Ministers of State, And Contributions rais'd to make 'em great. They from the publick Bank she did maintain, And freed from want, they only writ for Fame; And were as useful in a City held, As formidable Armies in the Field.
They but a Conquest over Men pursued, While these by gentle force the Soul subdu'd.
Not_ Rome _in all her happiest Pomp cou'd show A greater_ Caesar _than we boast of now_; Augustus _reigns, but Poets still are low.
May Caesar live, and while his mighty Hand Is scattering Plenty over all the Land; With God-like Bounty recompensing all, Some fruitful drops may on the Muses fall; Since honest Pens do his just cause afford Equal Advantage with the useful Sword_.
NOTES ON THE TEXT.
THE TOWN FOP.
p. 7 _Dramatis Personae_. I have added 'Page to _Bellmour_; Page to Lord _Plotwell_; Sir _Timothy's_ Page; Guests; Fiddlers; Ladies.'
p. 12, l. 36 _honoured_. 1724 'honourable'.
p. 13, l. 2 _answered the Civility_. 1724 'answered her the Civility'.
p. 13, l. 23 _whats_. 1724 'what'.
p. 13, l. 26 _any thing in Life_. 1724 'any thing in this Life'.
p. 14, l. 3 _God forbid it_; 1724 omits 'it'.