XVIII. XIX. XX.
TO THE MANAGING COMMITTEE OF THE NEW DRURY LANE THEATRE. [93]
Gentlemen,
Happening to be wool-gathering at the foot of Mount Parnassus, I was suddenly seized with a violent travestie in the head. The first symptoms I felt were several triple rhymes floating about my brain, accompanied by a singing in my throat, which quickly communicated itself to the ears of everybody about me, and made me a burthen to my friends and a torment to Doctor Apollo; three of whose favourite servants—that is to say, Macbeth, his butcher; Mrs. Haller, his cook; and George Barnwell, his book-keeper—I waylaid in one of my fits of insanity, and mauled after a very frightful fashion. In this woeful crisis, I accidentally heard of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, which cures every disorder incident to Grub Street. I send you inclosed a more detailed specimen of my case: if you could mould it into the shape of an address, to be said or sung on the first night of your performance, I have no doubt that I should feel the immediate effects of your invaluable New Patent Hissing Pit, of which they tell me one hiss is a dose.
I am, &c.,
Momus Medlar.
CASE, No. I.
MACBETH.
[Enter Macbeth in a red nightcap. Page following with a torch.]
Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
(She knows that my purpose is cruel),
I’d thank her to tingle her bell
As soon as she’s heated my gruel.
Go, get thee to bed and repose—
To sit up so late is a scandal;
But ere you have ta’en off your clothes,
Be sure that you put out that candle.
Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.
My stars, in the air here’s a knife!
I’m sure it cannot be a hum;
I’ll catch at the handle, add’s life!
And then I shall not cut my thumb.
I’ve got him!—no, at him again!
Come, come, I’m not fond of these jokes;
This must be some blade of the brain—
Those witches are given to hoax.
I’ve one in my pocket, I know,
My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy-high-ho,
The poor Caledonian grinder.
I see thee again! o’er thy middle
Large drops of red blood now are spill’d,
Just as much as to say, diddle diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill’d.
It leads to his chamber, I swear;
I tremble and quake every joint—
No dog at the scent of a hare
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! ’twas a dagger of straw—
Give me blinkers, to save me from starting;
The knife that I thought that I saw
Was nought but my eye, Betty Martin.