Now in my last extremity; for I Have held its honor far above my crown, And have maintained no queenly dignity More pure from vulgar stain. I know my words My chastity, so perilled by your doom. A thousand deaths to save their guiltless lives: I will accompany them, most willingly, Through death to heaven, through pain to endless peace. I have said all. Nor. Remove the prisoner. [QUEEN ANNE bows to the Court, and is led off by Sir WILLIAM KINGThen exeunt all but the Lords Triers.] STON. Rich. We are damned for ever! Nor. Poh, poh! saved, I think. While she held power heads flew like tennis-balls. Rich. Have you no grosser phrases? Fool," forsooth! There's the last blow to greatness!—Arundel Claims her as kindred! Nor. Gentlemen, away! Our sun of power is burning in mid air; We waste the daylight. Come, let us seek the king. From "Anne Boleyn." LITERARY STRATAGEM. S. FOOTE. 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. Dactyl. And how can one help it, Mr. Puff? Genius impels, and when a man is once listed in the service of the muses Puff. Why, let him give them warning as soon as he can. A pretty sort of service, indeed! where there are neither wages nor vails. The muses! and what, I suppose this is the livery they give. Gadzooks! I had rather be a waiter at Ranelagh. Bever. The poet and publisher at variance! what is the matter, Mr. Dactyl? Dact. As gad shall judge me, Mr. Bever, as pretty a poem, and so polite; not a mortal can take any offence; all full of panegyric and praise. Puff. A fine character he gives of his works. No offence! the greatest in the world, Mr. Dactyl. Panegyric and praise! and what will that do with the public! why, who the devil will give money to be told that Mr. Such-a-one is a wiser or better man than himself? no, no; 'tis quite and clean out of nature. A good sousing satire now, well powdered with personal pepper, and seasoned with the spirit of party; that demolishes a conspicuous character, and sinks him below our own level; there, there, we are pleased; there we chuckle, and grin, and toss the half-crowns on the counter. Dact. Yes, and so get cropped for a libel. Puff. Cropped! ay, and the luckiest thing that can happen to you. Why, I would not give two-pence for an author that is afraid of his ears. Writing, writing is, as I may say, Mr. Dactyl, a sort of a warfare, where none can be victor that is the least afraid of a scar. Why, zooks, sir, I never got salt to my porridge till I mounted at the Royal Exchange. Puff. No, no; that was the making of me. Then my name made a noise in the world. Talk of forked hills, and Helicon! romantic and fabulous stuff. The true Castalian stream is a shower of eggs, and a pillory the poet's Parnassus. Dact. Ay, to you indeed it may answer; but what do we get for our pains? Puff. Why, what the deuce would you get? food, fire, and fame. Why, you would not grow fat! a corpulent poet is a monster, a prodigy! No, no; spare diet is a spur to the fancy; high feeding would but founder your Pegasus. Dact. Why, you impudent, illiterate rascal! who is it you dare treat in this manner? Puff. Heyday! what is the matter now? Dact. And is this the return for all the obligations you owe me ! but no matter; the world, the world shall know what you are, and how have used me. you Puff. Do your worst; I despise you. Dact. They shall be told from what a dunghill you sprang. Gentlemen, if there be faith in a sinner, that fellow owes every shilling to me. Puff. To thee! Dact. Ay, sirrah, to me. In what kind of way did I find you? then where and what was your state? Gentlemen, his shop was a shed in Moorfields; his kitchen, a broken pipkin of charcoal; and his bedchamber under the counter. Puff. I never was fond of expense; I ever minded my trade. Dact. Your trade! and pray with what stock did you trade? I can give you the catalogue; I believe it won't overburthen my memory. Two odd volumes of Swift; the Life of Moll Flanders, with cuts; the Five Senses, printed and colored by Overton; a few classics, thumbed and blotted by the boys of the charter-house; with the Trials of Dr. Sacheverel. Puff. Malice. Dact. Then, sirrah, I gave you my Canning: it was she first set you afloat. Puff. A grub. Dact. And it is not only my writings; you know, sirrah, what you owe to my physic. Bev. How! a physician? Dact. Yes, Mr. Bever; physic and poetry. Apollo is the patron of both opiferque per orbem dicor. Puff. His physic! Dact. My physic: ay, my physic: why, dare you deny it, you rascal! What, have you forgot my powders? Puff. No. Dact. My cosmetic lozenge, and sugar-plums? Puff. No. Dact. My coral for cutting of teeth, my potions, my lotions, my paste for superfluous hairs? Puff. No, no; have you done? Dact. No, no, no; but I believe this will suffice for the present. Puff. Now, would not any mortal believe that I owed my all to this fellow? Bev. Why, indeed, Mr. Puff, the balance does seem in his favor. Puff. In his favor! why, you don't give any credit to him: a reptile, a bug, that owes his very being to me? Dact. I, I, I! Puff. You, you! what, I suppose, you forget your garret in Wineoffice-court, when you furnished paragraphs for the farthing-post at twelve-pence a dozen. Dact. Fiction. Puff. Then, did not I get you made collector of casualties to the Whitehall and St. James's? but that post your laziness lost you. Gentlemen, he never brought them a robbery till the highwayman was going to be hanged; a birth till the christening was over; nor a death till the hatchment was up. Dact. Mighty well! Puff. And now, because the fellow has got a little in flesh, by being puff to the play-house this winter, to which, by the by, I got him appointed, he is as proud and as vain as Voltaire. But I shall soon have him under; the vacation will come. Dact. Let it. Puff. Then I shall have him sneaking and cringing, hanging about me, and begging a bit of translation. Dact. I beg, I, for translation! Puff. No, no, not a line; not if you would do it for two-pence a No boiled beef and carrot at mornings; no more cold pudding sheet. and porter. You may take your leave of my shop. Dact. Your shop! then at parting I will leave you a legacy. Puff. Let him alone. Dact. Pray, gentlemen, let me do myself justice. Bev. Younger, restrain the publisher's fire. Younger. Fy, gentlemen, such an illiberal combat-it is a scandal to the republic of letters. Bev. Mr. Dactyl, an old man, a mechanic, beneath Dact. Sir, I am calm; that thought has restored me. To your insignificancy you are indebted for safety. But what my generosity has saved, my pen shall destroy. Puff. Then you must get somebody to mend it. Dact. Adieu ! Puff. Farewell! Bev. Ha, ha, ha! come, let us along to the square. [Exeunt severally. Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, From "The Patron." THE HYPOCRITE UNMASKED. GOLDSMITH. Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no farther; things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than-a thousand years. Mum! Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push and where to parry; that know how the land lies -eh, Honeywood? Miss Rich. It is fallen into yours. Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say that's all. I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is the word, Madam. Honeywood. But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. Lofty. Indeed! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most thoroughly mistaken. I had it of him. Miss Rich. He! why Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month. Lofty. This month! It must certainly be so-Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there; and so it came about. I have his letter about me; I'll read it to you—[Taking out a large bundle]. That's from Paoli of Corsica; that from the Marquis of Squilachi.-Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland ?-Honest Pon-[Searching.] O, sir, what, are you here, too? I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him. Sir William Honeywood. Sir, I have delivered it; and must inform you, it was received with the most mortifying contempt. Croaker. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean? Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll find it come to something presently. Sir Wm. Yes, sir; I believe you'll be amazed, if after waiting some time in the ante-chamber; after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed upon. Lofty. Good! let me die; very good. Ha! ha! ha! Cro. Now, for my life I can't find out half the goodness of it. Lofty. You can't. Ha! ha! Cro. No, for the soul of me! I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the message? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha! ha! It was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha! ha! Cro. Indeed! How? why? Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord |