Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, REJECTED ADDRESSES: PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS, BY T. H., by HORACE SMITH



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REJECTED ADDRESSES: PUNCH'S APOTHEOSIS, BY T. H., by             Poet's Biography
First Line: As manager of horses, mr. Merryman is
Last Line: [exeunt dancing.
Alternate Author Name(s): Smith, Horatio
Subject(s): Dancing & Dancers; Hook, Theodore Edward (1788-1841)


Scene draws, and discovers PUNCH on a throne, surrounded by LEAR, LADY
MACBETH, MACBETH, OTHELLO, GEORGE BARN-WELL, HAMLET, GHOST, MACHEATH, JULIET,
FRIAR, APOTHECARY, ROMEO, and FALSTAFF. -- PUNCH descends and addresses
them in the following

RECITATIVE.

As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,
So I with you am master of the ceremonies --
These grand rejoicings. Let me see, how name ye 'em? --
Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E-pi-thalamium.
October's tenth it is: toss up each hat to-day,
And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday!
On this great night, 'tis settled by our manager,
That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,
Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillion,
And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;
That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,
May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.
So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,
Spin up a teetotum like Angiolini:
That John and Mrs. Bull, from ale and tea-houses,
May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis!

They dance and sing.

AIR -- "Sure such a aay." TOM THUMB.

LEAR.

Dance, Regan! dance, with Cordelia and Goneril --
Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;
Stop, Cordelia! do not tread upon her heel,
Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.
See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,
And t' other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than hell's hubbub.
They tweak my nose and round it goes -- I fear they'll break the ridge of it,
Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

LADY MACBETH.

I kill'd the king; my husband is a heavy dunce;
He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud.
One loves long gloves; for mittens, like king's evidence,
Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.

MACBETH.

When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery,
To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry;
With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,
Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

OTHELLO.

Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,
Spit the feathers from your mouth, and munch roast beef;
Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlet
That smother'd you, because you pawn'd my handker-chief.

GEORGE BARNWELL.

Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?
Milwood shews for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;
If on beauty 'stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,
Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

HAMLET.

I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and peri-helia
The moon can fix, which lunatics makes sharp or flat.
I stuck by ill luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,
Old Polony, like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat, rat!"

GHOST.

Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup -- no more I'll be an actor in
Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

MACHEATH.

I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O;
But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy O.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

JULIET.

I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore --
A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.

FRIAR.

And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly bore.

APOTHECARY.

And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.

ROMEO.

I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies amorous.

FALSTAFF.

I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous;
For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere I
Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!
[Exeunt dancing.




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