William Shakespeare.
——:o:——
MACBETH.
M. Alexis Soyer’s Soup for the Poor.
Since the ingenious gastronomic regenerator of the Reform Club issued his receipt for his cheap soup, every man has become his own cook, in his anxiety to produce a specimen of the popular potage. Discussions, also, have arisen upon the cost, as stated by the inventor, and opinions of every kind have been launched at it, principally, however, by those who expected to make mock turtle at three-half-pence a quart, out of nothing, and were disappointed therein. Its manufacture has suggested the following scene:—
Scene.—The Kitchen of the Reform Club. In the middle a Copper boiling.
Enter M. Soyer and two Cooks.
Soyer.—
Thrice the Palace clock hath chim’d.
2nd Cook.—
Thrice: and members all have dined.
3rd Cook.—
Ireland cries: ’tis time—’tis time!
Soyer.—
Round about the copper go,
In the cheap ingredients throw.
Dripping that in gallipot
Days and nights has been forgot;
Boneless beef in square bits cut,
In two-gallon saucepan put.
All.—
Don’t mind trouble, were it double,
Stir the copper till it bubble.
Soy.—
Fifteen leaves of celery top;
In with turnip peelings pop.
Green of two leeks on them hurl;
Half a pound of barley pearl;
Common flour next half a pound,
In eight quarts of water drown’d.
Whitest salt and sugar brown;
That will make the soup go down,
Then a penny charge for fuel.
And for Sixpence make the gruel.
All.—
At a trifling cost of trouble,
You may make the copper bubble.
Soy.—
Give it to the poor as food
And ’twill be found cheap and good.
Air—M. Soyer.
From “La Sonnambula.”
Still so gently onions peeling,
The smell will bring out the feeling,
Spite of all their sneers revealing,
That the beef—that the beef is wholesome still.
Though mock turtle soup may charm thee,
And mulligatawny warm thee,
Sure my soup will never harm thee:
If it feed not—if it feed not—it will fill.
2nd Cook.—
By the licking of my thumbs,
Something weighty this way comes.
Open locks, whoever knocks.
Enter John Bull.
John.—
How now you knowing gastronomic wags,
What is’t you brew?
All.—
A soup without a name.
John.—
I conjure you by that which you profess
(Howe’er you came to know it), answer me.
Though you tie up the winds in pudding bags,
And into soufflées whip the yesty waves—
Compound and swallow all creation up—
Even till repletion sicken, answer me
To what I ask you.
Soy.— Parlez.
2nd Cook.— Ask.
3rd Cook.— Cut on.
Soy.—Say would’st thou rather hear it from our mouths,
Or from our platters?
John.— Let me see the carte.
Thunder.[66] The Apparition of a Boar’s Head rises.
App.—
John Bull! John Bull! beware an Irish stew!
Corn riots dread! dismiss me. That will do.
[Descends.
John.—
Thanks for the caution. Much obliged I feel.
The corn-laws altogether I’ll repeal.
Thunder. The Apparition of a Turkey, trussed, with a carrot in its hand, rises.
John.—
What’s this,
That, like the scutcheon of the Prussian King,
Holds in its claw a vegetable sceptre
And chain of sausage-meat?
All.—
Hish! hold your row.
App.—
Make lots of metal, John, and take no care
Who spends, who wastes, or who conspires to share.
John Bull shall never bankrupt be, until
Great Hornsey Wood shall come to Primrose Hill.
[Descends.
John.—
Had I three mouths I’d eat thee. It can’t be.
Had it been Alderman Wood and Rowland Hill,
They might have met; but trees can’t cut their sticks,
Nor Chalk Farm walk its chalk from Primrose Hill.
Yet, tell me one thing more. Shall famine ever
Reign in this kingdom.
Soy.— Show!
2nd Cook.— Show!!
3rd Cook.— Show!!!
Eight Cooks appear. The two last being Captain Cook and Mr. T. P. Cooke.
Soy.—
Whilst these great Cooks—the present and the past,
Who, although many, will not spoil the broth—
Vatel, who died for fish that came too late;
Carême, who cooked Napoleon’s goose; and Ude
Whom, if you’d known you’d have respected much.
Facetious Mrs. Glass, who recommends
That you should catch your hare ere you do cook it.
And Francatelli; who hath done a book
As well as I; and Doctor Kitchiner,
Oracular professor of his art.
And Captain Cook, who found out foreign roots,
(Though not by nature, yet a Cook by name).
And T. P. Cooke, who says “Avast! belay!”
Whilst in the sailor’s locker there’s a shot
No swab shall starve whilst these great cooks exist
(Or others like them) Famine ne’er shall reign.
[They disappear.
John.—
Where are they? Gone! No matter; I’m at rest,
Though cat’racts may destroy potatoes’ eyes—
Though years may come and bring no ears of corn—
Though meat may rise as high as Green’s balloon—
Still, whilst our brave cooks can make all ends meat,
No famine e’er shall harm us.
Chorus from “Macbeth,” “We Fry by Night.”
The Man in the Moon, Vol. I.
Why, what the deuce is that before my nose?
It’s like a dagger now I see it close;
And, rat it too, the handle turn’d this way!
But come, I’ll have a grip, cost what it may.
By Jove, I’ve missed it! yet I see it still,
It’s cursed odd—but find it out I will.
“Thou fearful, fatal vision, tell me why,
“You thus elude me—is it ‘all my eye?’
“Or art thou coin’d in this thick skull of mine,
“A phantom from the fumes of heat and wine?”
Death, fire, and furies! why I see thee here
In form as plain and palpable, I swear,
As this I’m drawing;—on thy blade and dudgeon
Are gouts of blood;—but, mark me! I’m no gudgeon!
It’s all a lie!—I’ll not be humbugg’d thus,—
’Tis this curs’d business puts me in a fuss!
The Gownsman, Cambridge, 1830.
Shakespeare’s Ghost on the New Apocalypse.
The Three Witches (as represented by three eminent dignitaries.)
Scene I.
Where shall we three meet again?
In br-th-l, hall, or sacred fane?—
Ere our hurly-burly’s done,
Pestilence by us begun
Spread from east to set of sun!—
Where the place?—
The road to h—l!
Let us go at it pall-mall!—
I come, Salvation!—
T-mps-n calls!—
Anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair;
Wallow in the drains and filthy air!
Scene II.
Round about the office go,
In the poisonous savours throw!
Anecdote of rankest taste,
Far too saleable to waste,
Sweltered venom, creeping got,
Boil those first i’ the T-mps-n pot!
Double, double, stench and trouble,
Pot boil, and poison bubble!
Fragment of some juicy lie,
Stew and flourish by and by;
Dash of philanthropic twist,
Tongue of sentimentalist,
Breath of skunk and adder’s sting,
Feathers of the Church’s wing,
Winkings of the powers that be,
Palate of the debauchee,
For a chance of deadly trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Gushings of hysteric craze,
Prayers of saints of latter days,
Latest rags of virgin veil,
Little coins of blackest mail,
War-cry of blaspheming throats,
Politician’s bid for votes,
Army stock and rubble stones,
Christy banjo, Christyan bones,
Platform ranter’s purchased shriek,
Blushes robbed from woman’s cheek,
Blasted charm of household joys,
Ruined souls of girls and boys,
Birthright of mind-poisoned babe
To the profit of a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab.
Add the shield of State paternal
For the ingredients of our journal!
Double, double, stench and trouble,
Pot boil, and poison bubble!
The World, August 26, 1885.
The agitation to which this Parody calls attention may have been initiated with all sincerity and purity of motives, but it has directly encouraged the hawking about of some of the most abominable publications which have ever yet been publicly exposed for sale.
To protect “fallen” women is, no doubt, a most laudable and philanthropic object, but it should be possible to do this without either annoying other members of the community, or outraging public decency. Some of the best streets of London were recently rendered impassable to modest women by the foul-mouthed ruffians who exposed these filthy publications for sale, and touted their wares in language more vile and repulsive than even the publications they disposed of dared to venture on.
——:o:——
“All the World’s a Stage.”
On the 27 August, 1885, Truth contained no less than twenty parodies of the well known speech commencing—“all the World’s a Stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
The following are the most interesting, the one signed Orchis, (by Mr. T. B. Doveton,) being, on the whole, a closer parody than any of the others:—
Dinner-parties.
——Dinner is a stage
With knives and forks the company are players;
Courses have exits and swift entrances;
And each guest, in his time, plays many parts,
His acts being seven epochs. At first the soup
Steaming and seething in the grand tureen,
Then comes the whiting tasty, or the salmon
With shining silver scales, sleeping serene
Upon the lordly dish; and then the venison,
Done to a turn, and worthy of a ballad,
As any lady’s eyebrow. Then the pasties
Full of rich fruits, and not too much of lard,
Jellies delicious, wholesome and quickly eaten,
Melting—a great desideratum—
Even in the diner’s mouth—and then the stilton
In fair round form, and with a napkin bound,
With rind full thick, and taste extremely strong,
Full of strange mites, and microscopic things;
So each guest plays his part. The sixth course shifts
Into the rare luxurious dessert,
With sherry on this side, and port on that;
A vintage good, well saved, a world too old
To be much drunk; the host’s loud manly voice
Turning at length quite husky, cherished pipes
And weeds with coffee come. Last scene of all
That ends this dinner’s faithful history,
Is simple maundering and sheer oblivion,
Sans sense, sans eyes, sans speech, sans every thing.
Orchis.
(Jack soliloquizes.) All go off alike,
And all the wines and dishes seldom alter;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each guest in his turn tastes many things,
His share being seven courses. At first the turtle,
Seething with richness in the bright tureen;
And then the princely turbot, with the lemon
And shrimp or oyster sauce, making it glide
Most palatably down; and then the entrées,
Smelling divinely in their shallow basins
Made of the shining metal; then a turkey,
Full of forcemeats and roasted to a turn,
Swimming in gravy garnished thick with sausage,
Raising the tide of expectation
Even in the bishop’s mouth; and then the pudding
In grand round belly, and with holly crown’d;
With eyes intent we watch each slice that’s cut,
Full of good things and spicy substances;
And so we take a part. The sixth course drifts
Into the plain and usual dessert,
With walnuts ’neath one’s nose, and port each side;
Our evening clothes were made on purpose wide
To hold such stuff. And now some manly voice,
Turning towards politics and meerschaum-pipes,
Makes ladies leave the room. Last course of all
That ends this dinner-party history
Is coffee, cognac, weeds, and utter bliss,
Sans flirts, sans prudes, sans wife, sans womankind.
Crystal Palace.
——All the world’s away,
And all the men and women on the tramp;
They have their tourist tickets and bank credits,
And each man grumbling with his bullion parts
To keep his household moving. First, the infant
Squalling and struggling in the nurse’s arms,
And then the schoolboy with his rod and basket,
Changing from place to place, at large on bail
Most willingly from school. And then the matron
Scolding like a fishwife, with a woful look
Upon the piles of baggage; then the cabby,
Full of strange oaths standing on guard,
Daring the porters, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Clamouring for double his remuneration
Even in the tariff’s face; and then the bobby,
In regulation tunic strapped and belted,
With eyes severe and an imperial strut,
Quoting the law, refers to modern instances,
And so he plays his part. Then the “gov’nor,” drest
In shooting jacket and check pantaloons,
With spectacles on nose, jeered at, defied,
Elbowed and buffeted on every side,
On a trunk sinking, lifts his voice no more,
Wipes his moist brow, and, as he fills his pipe,
Whistles despairingly. Last scene of all
That ends poor paterfamilias’s history,
Is the home-coming, and more chivying
(Sans doute) en route—ennuied, wrong everything.
Prima Donna.
——Parliament’s a stage,
And honourable members merely players;
They have their prompters, cues, and call-boys too,
And some men while they sit play many parts,
Their acts being seven stages. At first the novice,
Trembling and blushing while he’s introduced,
And then the grumbling sportsman leaving moors
Or salmon-streams behind, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to vote. Then the enthusiast,
Spouting like sperm-whale, with a wistful eye
Fixed on his leader’s hat. Then a debater,
Full of false facts and smart in repartee,
Careless of courtesy, rash and quick in general.
Seeking the bubble reputation
By an unbridled tongue. And then the Minister,
In pleasant sinecure, with good salary lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and feeble platitudes;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into a sleek and useless peer o’ the realm,
With coronet on brow and ermine robes.
His earlier wit, though dulled, a world to bright
For his new sphere, and his once manly voice
Turning again towards childish accents, drones
And falters in his words. Last scene of all
That ends the strange eventful history
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans power, sans fame, sans friends, sans everything.
Bart.
——All Parliament’s a stage,
The Lords mere supers, and the Commons players,
Coming and going on and off the scenes;
And each one plays a different character
In seven phases. First the canvasser,
Bowing and scraping, free with purse and alms;
Then the young candidate, with laboured speech
And blushing face, weak-kneed and pale,
Creeps to the platform. Then the strong member,
Like lover with his mistress, wins the mob
With honied words. Then the great orator,
Full of unmeaning phrases, hard to beard,
Zealous in argument, fierce in retort,
Seeking a wordy reputation
E’en in high councils. Then the Minister,
Sleek with good living, with rich income primed,
Austere with knitted brow, and courtly gard,
Full wise in laws and ancient precedents,
And so displays high art. The sixth phase shifts
Into the scarlet-robed and gartered Peer,
A spectacle in pose, touched with the pride
Of titled state from all the world to hide
His youthful pranks; his late commanding voice,
Toned down to softest accents, mildly speaks
In gentle pleadings. The last phase of all
Is the poor part of intellect decayed
In second childhood of extreme old age;
Sad sight! sad hearing; sad the end of all!
Old Log.
——All the night’s a stage,
And all the singers on it merely cats;
They have their solos and their choruses,
And one cat in the night sings many tunes,
Her songs being seven tortures. At first a purring,
Mewing and scratching at the kitchen door,
Then a whining scuffle with a neighbour’s tom
About an ancient bone, bleached in the mud,
Each claiming shares: and then the love duet,
Burning with passion, rising to my window,
In hideous cadences; then the war song
Betwixt two rivals to Miss Muffet’s favour
Starts up, eloquent with hisses and mad
Careering up and down the area stairs
Even to my very door; and then the tabby,
In sleek fat form, with good grey coat of fur,
With twinkling eyes and well-trimmed whiskers,
Lifts her voice in wild, untuneful melody,
And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls
To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell,
All scratched on nose and wounded side,
Her youthful freshness faded years too soon,
And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice,
With hideous likeness to infantile howls,
Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all
That ends this awful, maddening night,
Is one last howl—then day breaks in upon us,
Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast.
Zenas Dykes.
——All the day’s a plague,
And all the people merely peace-disturbers,
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each one plays his own discordant part
Till the brain madly rages. At first the sweep,
Screeching and shouting loud his wild alarm;
Then that morning nuisance, with his basket
And tinkling muffin-bell, shouting “all ’ot”
When all his store is cool. And then the beggar,
Singing, like saw-mill, a hymn or a tender ballad
Smugly, yet winking his eyebrow. Then the “Army,”
Causing wild oaths as, clad in monstrous garb,
With drum and cornet, gaily they preach or quarrel,
Seizing the soldier’s designation,
But facing no cannon’s mouth, And then th’ Italian,
His poor pinched belly seldom with square-meal lined,
With coal-black eye and hair that should be cut.
And organ belching nigger melodies.
And so he plays his part. The next plague springs
From German deep trombone and wild bassoon,
From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide,
Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs
Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass
Alike even to the highest treble, yield
Most irritating sounds. Till last of all,
To close the days tormenting history.
The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion
Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything.
Nomad.
——All the world’s a stable,
And all its denizens are merely horses;
They have their hardships and their pleasures,
And one horse in his time sees many changes,
His life being seven ages, At first, the foal,
Frisking and skipping in the breeder’s yard;
Then the “whinnying” colt, with curb and rein,
And smack of whip, pacing, like schoolboy,
Unwillingly in trammels. And then the racer,
Flying like lightning for the cup or plate
Given by the Jockey Club. Then the hunter,
Full of high keep, and coat as sleek as silk,
Perfect in shape, and proud of pedigree,
Gaining a wide-spread reputation
For being “in at the death.” And then to mailcoach,
In splendid show indignantly is harness’d,
By critics scanned at formal “meet”; then urg’d
To th’ instant point of modern expedition;
And so he runs his stage. “Sold up,” he shifts
Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab,
With fare inside, and driver perch’d aloft;
His early vigour gone, a shower of blows
Are rain’d on his shrunk back; his wind is bad
And he has turned a “piper” and oftimes
Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends
His cruel and unpitied destiny;
To Knacker’s yard for slaughter he is led,
Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase—fit for dogs.
East Anglia.
——All the world’s a field,
And all the men and women cricket-players,
They have their innings and their fielding out,
And one man in his time plays many games,
His life being seven matches. First, the infant,
Mowing and poking at his nurse’s slows;
And then the school-boy, boundless in ambition,
But green in judging lengths, slogging like fun,
And bowled by yorkers; then the undergrad,
Smoking strange weeds, and blazer’d like the Turk,
Heedless of honours, puppet of every fancy,
Seeking a college reputation
Even in the schools despite; and then the lover,
Shying like Frenchman, with a woeful habit,
Of dropping all his catches; then the husband,
With waist expanding, to short runs inclined,
With eyes correct, and coat of formal cut,
Full of old joys, and new incumbrances,
And so he meets his match. The sixth is played
By the stiff pater with his growing lads,
With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand;
They trundle at the stumps a world too fast
For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart,
Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows
And revels at each ball. Last match of all,
Which ends the sturdy cricketer’s career,
Is played in his arm-chair at second hand,
Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything.
Tub.
——All the world’s a feast,
And all the men and women merely gourmands;
Few have their chef, they mostly pot-luck share,
But all guests in their turn try many plats,
The courses being seven, At first the Soup,
Unsatisfactory, greasy, and cold;
Then Fish, whose shining face is seen too long,
Proclaims his advent ere he comes in sight.
Entrèes as twins appear; you choose of one,
To wish your choice had fallen on the other.
Mutton disguised with mint to pass for lamb,
Taking his dubious imposture
Into our plates, but not beyond our palates,
A bird comes next—a bird that crowed too long;
Crestfallen warrior, done to death and tough;
And so we sit and eat, while cheap champagne
Goes round with tedious jokes, both flat and stale.
At length the scene is changed—the Sweets appear;
Misshapen, quiv’ring jellies, doughy tarts,
The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far.
(Pale cream accompanies, whose “turn” is come,)
Dessert—a prematurely-shrivelled pine,
Tom from its tropic soil in early youth;
Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust.
The end of this unpalatable dinner
Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so
Our last hope flies, our time is come. We go
With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied.
Chum-Chum.
——A State Church is a stage,
Its well-paid priests and bishops often players;
They have their stipends and emoluments,
And each man, if he plays his part with skill,
May gain preferment. At first the student,
Reading or larking at his Alma Mater;
And then the genteel curate, with chasuble,
And early morning prayers, with Oxford twang,
Invincible at croquet. Then the incumbent,
Preaching like furnace, with a shilling pamphlet,
On some new-fashioned high-go. Then the rector,
Full of strange whims, robed like a queer old barb,
Sudden and quick to seize the next preferment,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E’en in a canon’s stall. And then the bishop,
In fair lawn sleeves and with a purse well lined;
His youthful friends now get the formal cut,
Full of anxiety to keep things pleasant;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the grand and courtly Archbishop;
A spectacle he grows of pride and pomp,
And thinks the Church well saved, and world beside,
By his tall talk; with namby-pamby voice,
Pointing again to Becket and to Laud,
Like whom he would be found. Last scene of all
That best will cure this curious history,
Is Disestablishment and Disendowment,
Sans worldly power, sans many an evil thing.
A. Meeram.
——All the land’s a booth,
And all the men and women merely voters,
They have their franchise and their ballot-box,
And one man in his time gives many votes.
He votes for seven parties. The first, a Whig,
Frightened and cautious in the Liberal ranks;
And then the so-called Liberal, with his promises,
And sheep-like party-gait, creeping like snail
Towards long-sought reform. Then the Home Ruler
Roaring for freedom, with a piteous tale
Told of his country’s misery. Then a Radical
Full of reform and moving with the time,
Scenting abuses, sudden and quick to right ’em,
Seeking the people’s happiness
Even at the lordling’s cost. And then the Independent
With smooth-tongued speech, and pocket well lined,
With views severe and stuck-up formal mien,
Full of advice and smug hypocrisy.
And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote’s given
Unto the mighty Tory landowner,
With a fine porty nose, and gout beside,
His ancient views—grown old—an age too late
For this sharp world; and his high handed mode
Turn ’gainst him all but sycophants, who’ll pipe
And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all,
To end this string of partisans, is given
To worthless “Turncoats,” mere title hunters,
Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle.
W. Val. English.
——All the world’s insane,
And all the men and women fools of fancy;
They have their whims and monomanias,
And each man in his life hath many moods,
His lot being seven crazes. And first the infant,
Squealing and squalling for the distant moon:
And then the schoolboy, with his breaking voice
And cheap cigar, acquiring other lore
Than what is taught at school. And then the lover
With Richmond dinners, “fizz,” and lobster salad,
To win Aspasia’s favour. Then the soldier,
Full of himself, and glorious on parade,
Solemn and warlike in another’s quarrel,
Seeking to gain a killing reputation
E’en from the sex’s mouth. And then the justice,
One of the great infallible unpaid,
With books of law intact and leaves uncut,
Gath’ring wise utt’rance from the whisp’ring clerk,
And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts
Into the fogy of the Tory club,
With well-dress’d jasey and with glass in eye,
The march of progress spreading far too wide
For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice
In some snug hostelry with port and pipe,
Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all,
That seems the strangest in its mystery,
Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion—
Saint This, Saint That, Saint T’other—Any one.
B. H. D.
——All the world’s a ship,
And all the men and women merely sailors;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each one in his ship plays many parts,
The number being seven stages. First, the cabin boy,
Groaning and puking in the stewards’ arms;
And then the midshipman, with his cutlass
And shining, genial face, going, in doubt,
Unwillingly on board. And then the boatswain,
Swearing, by all that’s hot, he’ll use his rope’s end
Upon some laggard’s shoulders. Then the lieutenant,
Full of strange hopes and visions like the bard,
Eager for honour, longing for war and quarrel,
Seeking the bubble, merited advancement,
E’en in an iron clad. And then the captain,
In handsome uniform, with honour worn,
With bright, clear eyes, and mouth that’s often shut,
Full of old yarns and deeds that tell of duty.
Then comes the proud and boastful admiral,
With spectacle on nose and sword by side,
His well-saved uniform a world to wide
For his shrunk form, and his big, manly voice
Turning again to peevish feebleness.
And so he struts his part. Last stage of all,
That ends this strange and restless history,
Comes the ex-admiral, prey to oblivion,
Sans fame, sans wealth, sans hope, sans everything.
Tib.
——The world’s a fashion-plate,
And all the men and women tailors’ dummies,
Who note the march of time by changing clothes,
A masher once, a man’s a masher always,
No matter what his age is. At first a baby
In a lace gown ogling his ancient nurse;
And then the public schoolboy, with his collar
Broad and snow-white, who gives his mind to ties,
And has no love for school-books. Then the dandy
Bored at eighteen, but hovering around
The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman,
Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache,
Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo,
Gaining a dreadful reputation,
Nightly at crowded balls. Then the swell middle-aged,
With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape,
With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard,
Full of himself, and tales of his own feats,
And how he play’d his part. The sixth age shows
The lean and shaky, wicked, gay old boy,
With gold pin and cane, with hat worn on one side;
His padded coat and tight strapped pantaloons
Hide his shrunk form, and his swaggering tone
Changed to a grumbling whine that everything
Is worse than it once was. While the last scene
Is tottered through by an old doting swell,
Who herds with boys, and tries to cheat death with
False teeth, false hair, false calves, false everything.
Roundabout.
Measure for Measure.
A Parody of the speech of Claudio in the first scene of the third act, commencing:—
“Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod.”
Aye, but to love, and not be loved again,
To nurse a hopeless passion, and to pine,
This body strong and healthy to become
A walking mummy—and the once cheerful mind
To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair
And moping sit in melancholy mood,
To feel the gusts of love and wild desire,
And know friends, fortune, person, all combine
To blast our hopes—or to feel tortures keener still,
To see a rival snatch away the prize;
Heavens! ’tis too horrible—the keenest pangs
That e’er the body felt, stone or rheumatic,
Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself
Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love.
From Poems by Edward Rushton. London—T. Ostell, 1806.
“As You Like it,” at Stratford-on-Avon.
The following Parody appeared in Gaiety. August 29, 1885, in reference to Miss Mary Anderson’s performance of the part of Rosalind, in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon.
If your heart for joy hath pined,
Go and seek out Rosalind.
In W. S.’s town you’ll find
Mary A. as Rosalind;
In “tights” most gracefully designed
Will appear fair Rosalind.
Methinks a damsel to your mind
Will be Mary’s Rosalind.
We hope she will not be maligned
When she playeth Rosalind,
But that critics will be kind
To that fair Yankee’s Rosalind.
Young England’s Version of Hamlet’s Soliloquy.
To smoke, or not to smoke, that is the question:
Whether a mild cigar assists digestion;
Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness,
Which some would say was nothing but a faintness;
To smoke—to drink and then to go to bed;
To find a pillow for an aching head;
To snore—perchance to dream! and half your senses scare
With visionary demons or nightmare;
To wake, in perspiration nicely dished,
’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished;
For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse
Of this base world, when he might cook his goose
Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care
For half the motley groups which at him stare,
Some morning early, stuck before the bench,
When soda-water would his fever quench,
But that a little thing within doth call?
Thus porter doth make rum ’uns of us all!
And thus our resolution to keep sober
Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear!
Oh! think of me love—when you fetch your beer.
Anonymous.
Further Parodies
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