The long odds: A serenata, in two acts.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- CHARACTERS.

- [act]

- [scene]

- SCENE II.

- ACT II.

- 2 continued

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE X.

- SCENE the LAST.

THE LONG ODDS. A SERENATA.

The END.

THE LONG ODDS. A SERENATA, IN TWO ACTS.

PRINTED IN THE YEAR, 1783.

CHARACTERS.

MALE.

Jupiter,

Miss Leonora Simonet.

Apello,

Miss Wilkinson.

Neptune,

Master Sestini.

Bacchus,

Master Langrist.

Plutus,

Master Sestini.

Mercury,

Miss Decamp.

Do•us,

Master Russel.

FEMALE.

Juno,

Miss Berry.

Venus

Miss Simonet.

Fame,

Miss Smyth.

Falas,

Miss Richardson.

Euph•osyne,

Miss Sawley.

Mopsa,

Miss Seymour.

Aminta,

Miss Romanzini.

Attendants, Priests, &c. The Muses.

Mount Olympus. The stage represents a large extent of decorated groves, arbours and pavillions; a kind of celestial pleasure ground.—Pretty far up the stage, in a pavillion, adorned with golden ornaments, are Juno, Minerva, Ceres, Diana and Fame, drinking tea. In another more forward, ornamented with silver, are Venus and the Graces, taking Ice, Jellies, &c.—Close in the front is a table, a twhich are seated Jupiter, Mercury, Plutus, Momus, and some others playing hazard; and in the back ground are small figures in groupes.—Iris, Cupid and Ganymede are waiting.

AIR. CHORUS.

The universe is all the same;

In heaven, as upon earth,

We rant, and revel,

Play the devil,

Gossip, chatter, wench and game,

And give a loose to mirth.

Mercury.

Seven's the main.

Jup.

Ay, seven's the main.

Merc.

A nick, friend Jupiter.

Jupiter.

Again—

Come, come no logging.

Venus.

T'other noggin,

Dear Euphroz.

Jup.

I can't poz roz.

Venus.

Fie, 'twon't hurt you!

[They drink.]

Juno.

I'm for virtu.

Fame.

You're its pettern.

Juno.

What does't signify,

Venus, or some such bra•en slattern!

Now-a-days, folks only dignify?

Jup.

The box is mine, then here goes manfully—

Eight.

Merc.

I set fifty.

Plutus.

And an handful I.

Jup.

Eight, and ten—

Here goes again

I'll win the church or lose the steeple—

I've lost—perdition!

Plut.

Pay the people.

CHORUS.

The universe, &c.

Venus.

I say, Euphrosyne, twig Juno.

She in a cabal is

With modest Mistress Pallas,

And Madam Fame, that gossip,

Abusing some folks I and you know,

While their tea they toss up,

That Fame such a blab is

Every little two-penny matter

She hears her envious neighbours chatter,

Their favor to curry,

She runs in a hurry,

And tells to these old tabbies.

Juno.

And so the minx was caught out?

Fame.

Yes, Ma'am.

Juno.

And pray, who with?

Fame.

Lord, can't you guess, Ma'am?

Juno.

Jove, for a shilling.

Oh! what a villain!

Fame.

You're pretty right in your conjecture.

Juno.

I'll give him such a curtain lecture!

Jup.

Zounds what a shark,

Merc.

I've—lost let's see—

Just fifteen heaps.

Jup.

And as for me,

My pockets wear Moll Thompson's mark.

(They rise and come forward.

CHORUS.

The universe is all the same;

In heaven, as upon earth,

We rant and revel,

Play the devil,

Gossip, chatter, wench and game,

And give a loose to mirth.

(At the end of the air, Juno and her party walk one way Venus, &c. another, and Jupiter, &c. come forward)

RECITATIVE.

Jup.

How comes it we've not here, to attack us,

Apollo, Neptune, and bold Bacchus?

Plut.

They're upon earth.

Merc.

In love, I warrant.

Plut.

Yes, yes, they're all on the same errand,

Playing more droll, and monkey tricks at,

Than Furioso or Don Quixote,

Jup.

And who are the three Dulcineas?

Plut.

Here lies the joke, one pale faced, she has

Charms for them all.

Merc.

And which will carry her?

Plat.

They've sworn each mother's son to marry her.

Jup.

Is each to the others actions privy?

Plut.

No, every one spurs on tantwivy

His own nag.

Jup.

And now pray, does Madam

Know'em?

Plut.

No more than you know Adam.

In three short words hear all their histories

This girl, at your religious mysteries,

Loved a Sicilian youth, one Lycidas—

Merc.

Who now resides at Delos?

Plut.

Yes he does;

Where Phoebus banished him in distress,

Then took his form to win his mistress.

He pleas'd her soon, but grew so proud on't,

And let his clapper ring so loud on't,

That t'other three, merely by fame, Sir,

Lov'd this Aminta—that's her name, Sir

Neptune called Pennant—Bacchus Ranter

With toast and glass, and bam and banter

Cajole the dad—while t'other blade is

With Solfa—tick'ling up the ladies.

Now hear what I'll do—if there's in her

A grain of pride, I'll woo and win her

For the poor lad—then joke these gods on't.

Jup.

You'll lose.

Plut.

I'll lay you the long odds on't.

Jup.

Done!

Plut.

Done!

Jup.

And done.

Plut.

This is our wager,

That in your temple I engage her

This night to marry me.

Jup.

Stake down.

Plut.

There's my ten pounds—

Jup.

And there's my crown.

The Universe, &c.

SCENE II.

A hall, with rustic, but handsome ornaments. On one side are Apollo, as Lycidas, and Aminta, sitting at a pinasorte; Dorus, Bacchus and Neptune drinking.

AIR.

Apollo, &c.

Do re mi fa sol la sol do,

Even, easy, gentle go,

That the notes may smoothly flow,

Not too fast, nor yet too slow.

Dorus.

Take a toper's toast—may the vine

In the Zodiac be a thirteenth sign,

A star that shall its influence shed,

To light the drunkards home to bed.

Apollo

Do mi sol re fa la sol mi

See see see

Who struck B?

Mi.

Take care; for if you lose the key,

You'll lose, what's worse, the harmony.

Nep.

Take a sailor's toast—may grog,

As through the voyage of life we jog,

Still the faithful pilot prove

That steers us to the port of love.

Apollo, &c.

Do re mi fa sol la sol do,

Even, easy, gently go,

That the notes may smoothly flow,

Not to fast, nor yet too slow.

Chorus.

Let's drink and sing and love and fight,

Each pursue his own delight;

The string, the fair, the sword, the bowl

Shall melt, tune, cheer, or nerve the soul,

That so we may be fitted for

Music and wine, and love and war.

RECITATIVE.

Dorus.

Come, t'other pull at the decanter,

I say, you tory rory ranter,

You shall be Bacchus, I Silenus,

And pitch and oakum here between us

Shall be the ass.

Aminta.

And so you tell us

They're both quite out of date.

Apollo.

Those fellows

Parcel and Handel with their knowledge,

Yes, we proceed, Ma'am, in our college,

On a new plan, we've changed our note,

Since Arne compos'd what Milton wrote,

And in the present institution,

Music's given up for execution;

Troth I shall have a heavy loss in

Ballow my boy, and Jemmy Dawson,

Margaret's ghost and hapless Peg

This last I love.

Apollo.

Sing it, I beg.

You'll jeer me,

Apollo.

No, Ma'am

Bacchus.

Never fear it,

Nep

Tip us the ditty.

Dorus.

Ay, let's hear it.

AIR.

And did you hear what sad disaster

Poor Peg of Mapledown befel?

For love which stoutest hearts can master.

Alas! that those who love so well,

In sorrow's train

Should mourn in vain.

Her story does such grief impel,

That woe is me the while I tell.

II.

She loved a youth of honest kindred;

At church behold the happy pair:

And ask what 'twas their bliss that hinder'd,

For he was young, and the was fair;

Accursed be wars

And party jars,

Why must the handsome danger share?

Alas! it fills me with despair.

III.

Onward to his liege lord's dwelling

A rebel rout had cut their way;

What shrieks ensued! and what a yelling!

For he a true man must away;

He swore the fight

Would end ere night,

And he'd return with garlands gay,

Sweet trophies for his wedding day.

VI.

Night came, and saw the youth returning;

Accurs'd be war's destructive knife;

She ran to clasp, with passion burning,

Her wedded lord—deprived of life;

Oh! cruel spright!

What! not one night?

Is not her tale with misery rife?

At once a maiden and a wife.

RECITATIVE.

Apollo.

Cara Carissima!

Dor.

To the matter:

These here three suterers seek my dature;

I'm all for Bacchus.

Luff, old soakum.

Nep.

His chance a'nt worth a pinch of oakham

Well, what say you? Why, as it were,

I can't, Miss, quaver you an air

Like Nip-chcese yonder, fine and finicle.

If one we sing abast the binnacle

Would suit, d'ye see, why I'd unship it you,

O; of all things, then, here goes tip it you.

AIR.

A sailor and an honest heart,

Like ship and helm, are ne'er apart;

For how should one stem wind and tide

If tother should refuse to guide.

With that she freely cuts the waves,

And so the tar,

When clashing waves arround him jar,

Consults his heart, and dangers braves

Where duty calls; nor asks for more

Than grog aboard, and girl ashore.

II.

'Tis not a thousand leagues from home

More horrid that the billows foam;

'Tis not, that gentler is the breeze

In Channel than in distant seas;

Danger surrounds him far and near;

But honest tar,

Though winds and waters round him jar,

Consults his heart, and scorns to fear;

The risks he runs endears him more

To grog on board, and girl ashore.

III.

'Tis not, that in the hottest fight

The murd'rous ball will sooner light

On that than any other spot,

To face the cannon is his lot;

He must of dangers have his share:

But honest tar,

Though fire and winds and water jar,

Consults his heart, and shakes off care;

And when the battle's heat is o'er,

In grog aboard, drinks girl ashore.

Apollo, Neptune, Bacchus, Dorus, Aminta and Mopsa.

RECITATIVE.

Mopsa.

Sir, Sir, I've fetch'd your musicianers.

Apolle.

Thou art my sweetest of commissioners.

I'll go prepare the concert, Madam,

Thou shalt have oceans.—

Mopsa.

If you had 'em.

O, never fear, you shall be paid,

All is not lost that is delayed;

A pig by keeping up gets fat,

Oh ho, Sir, if you're good at that.

Mop.
AIR.

I can proverb it too:—Ne'er lean on a rush,

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;

'Tis the money paid; that decides who's the winner?

Who waits upon fortune's ne'er sure of a dinner;

Out of sight out of mind, delaying breeds danger,

He ought to be cozened who trusts to a stranger;

Heaven take my friend, and the old one, my brother;

Promising's one thing, performing another.

II.

Much may fall out 'twixt the cup and the lip;

The builder's receipt's the best sail in the ship;

'Tis a good thing to lend, but a btter to borrow;

Pay me to-day, and I'll trust you to-morrow;

Brag is a good dog, but holdfast a better,

One may guess at a word when one knows the first letter;

There's not the most fire where we see the most smother;

Promising's one thing, performing another.

RECITATIVE.

Bacchus.

Now, Ma'am, for me.

Dorus.

That's right, lad; crack us

The praise o' th' bottle my bold Bacchus.

Aminta.

I've heard you all, and in good sooth,

To say I love not, were not truth,

For I do love, and that not slenderly,

But truly, constantly and tenderly;

Now do I keen impatience trace

In the jolly toper's ruddy face—

My bard's inspired—My tar tacks short,

And thinks he soon-shall make his port.

Which is it, toper, tar or poet?

Listen—I'll tell you how to know it.

AIR.

What time the vesper bell shall sing

The holy priests to call,

Him to the temple love must bring

Who does my heart enthral.

It may be you, or you, or you—

Would you know who,

Come all.

See how each brow with sadness lours,

Poor souls! what fears distress 'em!

Come, don't complain,

A few short hours

Will put you fairly out of pain,

Without suspense love ever cloys;

And we must first imagine joys,

Before we can possess 'em.

RECITATIVE.

Dorus.

I'm all for Bacchus.

Bacchus.

I shall pass about

To such a toast, with joy, the glass about.

Apollo.

Ye hours, till then be feathered feeted,

Neptune.

Your signal, Ma'am, shall be repeated,

Aminta.

In short, each tells me, in his lingo,

He'll fail me not—O love, by jingo,

Thy power all other power surpasses;

Thou turn'st the wisest men to asses.

Oh! for a simile to utter

What thou art like—Come, you who mutter

So much of torments which ye prove

Like to something this same love.

AIR.

Apollo.

Love's a fire—If fire you view

How beautiful and bright!

What kindly warmth when heavenly hue

How goodly to the sight!

But touch it, how it burns!

And so is love as bright as fair

Seen in a lovely face,

A snowey bosom, auburn hair,

Or figure moved with grace,

But felt—a serpent turns.

Mopsa.
II.

Love is wine—The wine you sip

All evils can controul;

And pleasure from the quivering lip

Soon reaches to the soul.

Drink deep.—You're drunk, my lad.

And so it is if love you try,

While you can have the art,

To let it gratify the eye

And never touch the heart,

For then 'twill drive you mad.

Appollo.
III.

Love's the Devil—What is he not?

He's every form and hue,

He's short and tall, and cold and hot,

And black and white and blue,

And till he buys you, civil.

So love still, under every form,

Changing a thousand ways,

True and false, and cold and warm,

Goes on till he betrays,

Exactly like the Devil.

CATCH.

To Cupid then let us be civil,

And flaming altars rear him:

Like Indians, who, they say, the Devil

Adore, because they fear him.

END of the FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

Scene continues.—Plutus.

RECITATIVE.

I've underta'en a job for Hercules,

Or the Devil, when in a conjuror's circle he is,

Or Atlas's toil, or Jason's travel,

Or Theseus's lab'rynth to unravel;

And were it not for this, I thank it,

I know they'd toss me in a blanket:

—Mopsa crossing the stage.

Plutus.

Here—Molly, Sukey, Jenny, Betty,

What is your name—you're dev'lish pretty?

Mopsa.

I wish I could return the compliment

Plutus.

Nay, nay, 'twas not your brow to rumple, I meant

I'd serve you—

Mopsa.

Ay, so say the rest of you,

To serve themselves—Ah! bad's the best of you.

Plutus.

Why what has put thee in this humour

Mopsa.

My lady's handsome—

Plutus.

So says rumour—

Mopsa.

And has three sparks—Yet, friend of mine,

I ne'er saw colour of their quine.

Plutus.

The fourth shall make up their omission—

And I am he—On one condition—

Mopsa.

What is't?

Plutus.

That you a good word speak for me—

Mopsa.

A better post you could not seek for me.

Plutus.

There's earnest then—

Mopsa.

A note for twenty!

I can't give change

Plutus.

O. I have plenty—

Keep it yourself—

Mopsa.

Lord you're so free of 'em—

You said you'd pay for all, there's three of them

Plutus.

And here three notes—Well, now regard me,

And see what share of praise you award me—

If now I'm ugly 'twere a strange ill,

Mopsa.

Ugly!—You're handsome as an angel—

AIR.

I vow I thought you, at first sight,

A moppet, a baboon, a fright,

Or some hob-gobbling of the night,

Who guilty creatures waken;

With nose and chin like rams-horns curled,

And brows in furrowed wrinkles furled;

Well! 'tis amazing in this world

How one may be mistaken.

II.

For now I see with half an eye,

You are not old, nor made awry,

Nor do your shambling trotters ply,

As if by palsy shaken;

You're young as Ganymede, and fair

Narcissus had not such an air;

Well! 'tis amazing, I declare,

How one may be mistaken!

SCENE III.

Plutus, Dorus.

RECITATIVE.

Plutus.

I've gain'd Ma'am Abigail for ever.

Here comes the father-now or never!

Dorus.

Hey, boys, for Bacchus!

Plutus.

Fill your glasses,

Confusion to all sober asses.

Dorus.

Who's this?—why, damn it, you're a joker—

Bacchus for ever—hey, old soaker;

Plutus.

Why Bacchus is a clever feller,

But Plutus 'tis who fills the cellar,

Which 'twixt ourselves will better suit us.

Dorus.

Is it?—then here goes—hey for Plutus;

Well, hang me but I like your notion—

Plutus.

Ay, ay, there lies your true devotion;

And if you've any thing to say to him,

I'll tell you in what way to pray to him.

Dorus.

Who are you, then, that overwhelm me so?

Plutus.

I'm his high priest.

Dorus.

Why you don't tell me so!

Plutus.

Have charge of every bag and coffer,

Which for your daughter's love I offer;

Dorus.

But, Sir, she has another lover,

Who when he chances to discover—

Indeed she has three, but Quaverino

Is her own choice—a monstrous Geno;

Plutus.

He!—hang him whezened creature—fulsomer

Than Doll he dances on his Ducimer;

He handsome, clever, witty, courteous,

Author of any thing that's virtuous,

Or ought of merit the contriver?

The fellow is not worth a stiver.

Dorus.

Indeed! That argument's convincing—

Plutus.

What signifies the matter mincing.

AIR.

He's poor as Job; and Sir,—you twig me,

Can he be tall?

Dorus.

Sir, he's a Pigmy.

Plutus.

Or handsome?

Dorus.

Uglier than a lizard;

Plutus.

Or strait?

Dorus.

As crooked as an Izard.

Plutus.

Honest?

Dorus.

He's one of your trapanners.

Plutus.

Well bred?

Dorus.

A bear has better manners.

Plutus.
RECITATIVE.

And as to all his tricks and fancies,

His fortune-telling and romances,

Our good or our ill fate divining,

From stars which at our birth were shining.—

AIR.

Why what can he tell us? we know all the past,

Are content with the fate we're at present possessing;

And if for the future our lot's are all cast,

We might there find a curse where we hope for a blessing.

What's hid in the stars, then, is not worth our care,

We shall know it too soon if 'tis any vexation;

If 'tis good fortune, pleasure's a little too rare,

To rob ourselves of it by anticipation.

II.

What folly 'twere then in the myst'ries of fate,

To drive, by a vain, idle impulse directed;

The knowledge of ill cannot lessen its weight,

And pleasure's most welcome when least it's expected.

What's hid, &c

SCENE IV.

To them AMINTA.

Dorus.

Here comes my daughter,

Plutus.

At her studies!

Dorus.

Her mad tide as the highest flood is.

Anintas.

With his own genius he has fired me;

He has transported me—inspired me:

Sweet Lycidas.

Dorus.

Do'nt prate so fast of him,

For once for all, you've seen the last of him.

Aminta.

O! Sir, consider how he plays

His graces, his cantabiles.

What taste and judgment there is in 'em.

Dorus.

Do'nt know a crotchet from a minum.

Aminta.

Who tells you so?

Dorus.

That gemman yonder.

Aminta.

Who when he's ready, 's he I wonder?

Plutus.

One who will prove him a worse tidler

At music, than an old blind fidler;

And you'll confess it.

Aminta.

I shall!—sooner

The solar orb shall yield 't th' lunar:

The spheres play discords, sound, kick•d sense,

And the nine muses chatter nonsense,

Plutus.

Make no rash oaths—one little ditty

Of mine's more tasty and more witty

Than all the warblings of that chap:

While I strike up, you hold your lap.

AIR.

Tis true, the mark of many years

Upon my wrinkled front appears,

Yet have I no such mighty fears

This will my fortune spoil;

Go'd still each happiness bestows,

Ev'n where no youthful ardour glows,

For proof dear girl, take these rouleaus

And give me one sweet smile.

II.

'Tis true upon my baggard face,

No marks of beauty can you trace,

Nor wears my figure ought of grace,

To ensure the lover's bliss,

Yet, am I no such shocking fright,

But that bank notes may set things right,

Take then these bills—all drawn at sight,

And give me one sweet kiss.

III.

'Tis true I know not to be kind,

And that within my hardened mind

No more a jewel can you find,

Than beauty in my face;

But one within this casket here,

Shall make amends—it's lustre's clear,

Nor shall I think I've sold it dear,

Paid by a sweet embrace.

[At the end of each stanza she hesitates, and at last gives him what he asks.]

RECITATIVE.

Plutus.

Well, is there any thing that's silly in't?

Sure never wit was half so brilliant—

Plutus.

Why, yes, it matter has, and reason,

Mopsa.

And such as always comes in season.

Plutus.

From a rough fellow, such as me,

You'd not expect such poetry.

Sir, roughest oysters we find pearl in;

Dorus.

Yes, yes, his arguments are sterling.

Plutus.

(To Aminta) Well what say you? my little sonnet,

You see, has drawn encomiums on it,

From these good people, one and 'tother?

Amnta.

I'll tell you, if you'll sing another.

P••us.▪

Hey day, what's here.

SCENE V.

To them, Apollo and the Muses.

Dorus.

You may well stare!

The fellow makes my house a fair.

Apollo.

Ladies and gentlemen be seated;

We're perfect, every thing's compleated;

O! you'll be charmed, come are you ready;

Take care—attention—lead off steady.

Careful—expressively—with gusto

Away—together—Tempo guisto.

AIR.

Come round me and weep, to your hearts take despair,

'Tis a cause that all nature must mourn,

Poor Hylas of love, who from all had a share,

From our wishes for ever is torn.

That Hylas, to whom, we looked up for a smile,

As we blessing from heaven obtain;

Whose form was so faultless, whose tongue knew no guile,

Is gone—and our wishes are vain.

RECITATIVE.

Apollo.

Well! old friend, what d'ye say to that?

Plutus.

I vow I thought it rather flat;

Apollo

But you, I'm sure, with rapture listened,

Aminta.

Ne'er heard such stuff since I was christened.

Mopsa.

I thinks it would be rare to meet,

Worse ballad singing in the street:

Apollo.

Your father is, asleep I see.

How is this,

Dorus.

Eh—O! don't mind me;

I rose just when the morn was dawning,

Besides at such stuff, how help yawning.

Apollo.

Ne'er did I see four faces sadder,

Plutus.

The truth, my good friend, is you're had here.

Apollo.

Had!—

Plutus.

Yes, your musick was divine,

'Till these good people had heard mine;

But I, by striking upon this chord,

Have made your harmony all discord;

Wit against gold—next time I prithee,

Thou goest to woo, take money with thee;

This shall assist thee in thy quarrel,

'Gainst dull Apollo and his laurel.

Apollo.

Peace Caitif, nor abuse a God,

Could crush thee with a single nod.

Aminta.

Nay, prithee friend, none of your breezes,

This gemman here does what he pleases;

Then do not thus our pleasure hinder,

Unless you'd be chuck'd out of winder.

Come, loveliest object of my wishes,

And let us leave this fool officious,

Poor, and make love, 'tis past endurance,

I never heard of such assurance.

AIR.

Shall I—the thought transports me,

When diamonds round me shine,

When fortune kindly courts me,

And so much splendour's mine.

Shall I such matchless favours,

Ungratefully thus wrong,

For semi-demi quavers,

And to the end of an old song.

No, no, no,

Fools alone do so,

And so good Sir solo,

You come and so may go.

No, no, in your carreer

You're stopt—your tinkling art,

Went only through my ear,

Like tumbler through a hoop;

It never touched my heart,

Therefore good Signor troop.

Shall I, &c.

Apollo, Dorus and Mopsa.

Apollo.

(To Dorus). And pray your promise forgetter,

Can you their friend be and abettor,

And in their perfidy protect 'em,

Promises, I don't recollect 'em,

Apollo.

Why, surely, sir, 'twould not be flattering

Myself

Good friend, I can't stand chattering,

If you've a brilliant thought your head in,

To celebrate my daughter's wedding,

You shall be paid for't—Well, adieu!

I have a thousand things to do.

Apollo, Dorus and Mopsa,

Dorus.

How could you write such horrid trash,

Such vile inferual stuff;

Apollo.

You lash

Somewhat too hard,

Plutus

I am no fool boy,

I'd shew you better from a school boy;

And as for musick not to sham it,

My good friend you can't say your gamut;

Grinding like organ with a barrel,

A thing like psalm or Christmas carrol,

And glide and languish, groan and die,

And call it harmony—! O! fie!

Would'st hear the Forte, the Piano,

And the true taste Italiano,

Of the composer, and the singer too,

Pray Madam, touch him up a thing or two.

AIR.

You must begin Pomposo,

Incline to the affecttuoso;

Then—of the Amoroso;

A gentle touch;

And now so much for the motivo:

Further in your progression,

No matter for expression,

So that, for relievo.

You ha!

And he!

And la!

And mi!

And sink, and break,

And trill and shake,

And on a long division soar,

You'll set the audience in a roar!

And now have done with that key,

And get into a flat key,

Now give us that once more,

And take it a note lower;

Now the flutes obligato

The fiddles pizzicato,

And now a long fermato.

Then to the subject come again,

And, after the motivo,

By way of a relievo;

Be sure repent that hum again,

Of ha,

And he,

And la,

And mi,

And sink, and break,

And trill and shake.

Then you must go low,

That the horns may have a solo;

And then on a division soar,

'Twill set the audience in a roar.

Apollo, Mopsa.

Apollo.

Give me thy pity and assistance,

Dear Mopsa.

Mopsa

Pray friend, keep your distance?

Such imperance indeed,

Believe me;—

Mop.

Where's all the gold you said you'd give me,

You fidling fellow;—Come, come, stir you friend,

Pipe somewhere else, there's nothing for you friend.

Gold then has borne away the palm,

Your very humble servant Ma'am;

The jade—she this old grazier chuses,

And slights Apollo and Muses.

AIR.

I thought we were fiddle and bow,

So well we in concert kept time;

And to strike up a part, base and low,

Without either reason or rhyme;

What a natural was I, so soon,

With pleasure to quaver away;

For I am hummed, I think now to some tune,

She has left me the piper to pay.

II.

'Tis plain to perceive she's in glee,

And thinks I shall be such a slat,

As to shake, but she's in a wrong key,

For she never shall catch me at that;

Whoe'er to the crotchets of love,

Let's his heart dance a jig in his breast,

'Twill a bar to his happiness prove,

And shall surely deprive him of rest.

SCENE X.

To him, Plutus, Dorus, Aminta and Mopsa.

RECITATIVE.

Ptutus.

And now good master sonnet monger,

We'll carry on the farce no longer;

(To Aminta) Your other lovers are together,

l'th' temple, I'll conduct you thither;

And yet I think 'twill make less fuss,

If we the temple bring to us,

Change scene, I will it!

SCENE the LAST.

The TEMPLE of JUPITER.

Apollo.

At this minute, I

Plainly perceive thou'rt some divinity;

Come hither, in my pranks to catch me;

But, if know who—the devil fetch me.

Plutus.

Off then, vile dress, let what will follow.

Apollo.

Plutus!

Plutus.

As sure as thou'rt Apollo,

Or, Bacchus thou, and, I'm afraid too,

We've Neptune here in masquerade too.

Great heroes all, yet let me tell you,

Plutus can always buy and sell you.

Apollo.

I do not you advantage envy.

Losers fare best, when gods with men vie;

Who from the vices they inherit,

Prefer base gold to sterling merit.

Plutus.

I thought you'd finish in heroics,

The others bear it like two stoics;

This tale above stairs, will make merry many,

But come as master of the ceremony.

I've yet to heal this fair one's sorrow.

You'll see your Lycidas to-morrow:

The real one—this god, you've lost here,

Was nothing more than an impostor!

Those riches I have left you, prize,

Adieu, be happy, and be wise.

AIR.

Apollo.

This story fell out, which to night we have given t'ye,

In the year of the world 'bout a thousand and seventy,

So says the tradition—and if ought of satire

It contains, pray believe we know nought of the matter,

'Tis plain to be seen, nor is this a lie,

For is there one here

To whom 'tis not clear,

That in England indulge any folly whatever,

Folks never for gold

Are barter'd and sold?

For our farce then no one can unkindly apply it,

No, no, we defy it,

We paint but the manners of Sicily.

Plutus.
II.

Would a gentleman fain be returned for a borough

Here in England, his money could ne'er bring him through;

No, no, he's obliged to leave all at their option,

For he ne'er could with brib'ry do ought or corruption;

I ask the whole nation—Is this a lie?

Is a counsellor learned,

In a law suit concerned

Most ready, for nothing he gives you his trouble;

To double

His Fee

With him were no plea;

Our farce then no one can unkindly apply it,

No. no, we defy it:

We paint but the manners of Sicily.

Amtnta.
III.

Is a treaty of marriage on foot—the poor lady

In England ne'er asks if the writings are ready,

But blindly accepting whate'er they appoint her,

She marries for love, and ne'er thinks of a jointure;

I appeal to the boxes—Is this a lie?

As to buying of wares,

And such trifling affairs,

All the world knows that six out of seven

Are given,

Not sold,

So light they prize gold;

For our farce then no one can unkindly apply it;

No, no, we desy it:

We paint but the manners of Sicily.

Information about this book

Title statement

The long odds: A serenata, in two acts.

Dibdin, Charles, 1745-1814.

Publication

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3465

ID [isbn10]

1106004647

ID [isbn13]

9781106004642

ID [TCP]

K011281.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3317148416

ID [ECLL]

1240702200

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The long odds: A serenata, in two acts., Dibdin, Charles, 1745-1814.. 30p. ; 8⁰. [London] :: Printed in the year,. 1783.. [Anonymous. By Charles Dibdin the Elder.] [Without the music.] [Reproduction of original from the Huntington Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN18858.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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