And who is the housemaid he means to enthral
In his cinder-producing alliance?
Tis Drury-Lane Playhouse, so wide and so tall,
Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,
If she cannot set sparks at defiance.
On his warming-pan kneepan he clattering roll’d,
And the housemaid his hand would have taken,
But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold,
And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold
All melted, like butter or bacon!
Oh! then she look’d sour, and indeed well she might,
For Vinegar Yard was before her;
But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight,
Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light,
To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.
Look! look! ’tis the Ale King, so stately and starch,
Whose votaries scorn to be sober;
He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch;
Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march,
And froths at the mouth in October.
His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung;
He taps where the housemaid no more is,
When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung
A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young,
And sported in loco sororis.
Back, lurid in air, for a second regale,
The Cinder King, hot with desire,
To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale,
With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail,
Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:
“Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew;
I rule the roast here, dash the wig o’ me!
If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you
Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New
I’ll have you indicted for bigamy!”
XIII.
PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.
By S. T. C. [65]
[SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.]