SCENE.—_An Apartment in the House of_ FRANCIS MOORE, _in which that
renowned Physician and Astrologer is discovered, lying at the
point of death_. _The_ NURSE _is holding up his head, while a
skilful_ MEDICINER _is dispensing a potion_. _Sundry_ OLD WOMEN
_surround his couch, in an agony of grief_. _The_ ASTROLOGER
_starteth up in a paroxysm of rage_.
_Moore._ "Throw physic to the dogs," I'll gulp no more.
I'm done for: my prophetic life is o'er.
Who are these hags? and wherefore come they here?
_Old Women._ Alack! he raves, and knows us not, poor dear!
To think he should his _only friends_ forget!
Who've fostered him, and made him quite a pet.
_Moore._ Begone, ye beldames! wherefore do ye howl?
_Old Women._ We've come to comfort your unhappy sowl.
_Nurse._ 'Tis the Old Women,—pr'ythee, do not scare 'em,—
Who to the last have bought your VOX STELLARUM;
They're sorely griev'd, and fear that you will die;
And then, alack-a-day! who'll read the sky?
_Moore._ Oh, ah!—yes—well,—just so—just so,
I see—I feel—I smell—I know—I know.
_Nurse._ Poor soul! he's going fast. Oh! shocking shock!
So kind a master.... Bless me! there's a knock!
_Enter_ RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, _in deep mourning_.
_Rig. Fun._ "Ye black and midnight hags! what is't ye do?"
_Nurse._ Speak softly, Sir; my master's turning blue.
He's not been sensible since last November.
_Rig. Fun._ (_aside_) Nor ever was, that I can e'er remember.
But we must talk before his course is run.
_Moore._ Who's that?—my sight grows dim—Is't RIGDUM FUN?
_Rig. Fun._ The same, great MOORE!
_Moore._ But, bless me! all in black!
What! mourn a _living_ man! Alack! alack!
_Rig. Fun._ I wear _prospective_ mourning, thus to shew
The solemn grandeur of _prophetic woe_.
_Moore._ The thought is _lively_, though the subject's _grave_;
And, therefore, you my free forgiveness have.
_Rig. Fun._ How can I serve you, ere you vanish hence?
_Moore._ I wish you'd cut the throat of COMMON SENSE.
To him I owe my death. That cruel wight
Long on my hopes has cast a fatal blight.
I knew I had receiv'd the mortal blow,
When first he wounded me, six years ago;
And every year the knave has stronger grown,
While ev'ry year has sunk me lower down.
_Rig. Fun._ I will avenge you;—nay, I'll go much further:
The "Crowner's quest" shall find him guilty "Murther."
The common hangman shall cut short his breath;
And, by a shameful end, avenge _your_ death.
_Moore._ 'Tis kindly said; and I in peace shall die.
Say, is there aught that _you_ would ask of _I_?
_Rig. Fun._ Oh, FRANCIS MOORE! who soon _no_ MORE wilt be;
I came, a precious boon to beg of thee:—
One gracious favour, ere you breathe your last,—
_On_ ME _your Prophet's mantle deign to cast!_
Let _me_ be raised to your deserted throne,
And call your countless subjects all my own.
Then let the mirth, they levell'd once at thee,
Fall, if it will, with tenfold force on me.
If all will laugh at _me_, who laugh'd at _you_,
The frowns of fortune I no more shall rue;
Nay, with such temper would I bear their jeers,
I could endure them for a hundred years.
_Moore._ Life's ebbing fast; my sands are nearly run;
But you shall have what you request, my son!
Now, sit you down, and write what I shall say,—
The last bright glimmerings of the taper's ray.
I'll shew you how to pen those strains so well,
Of which the meaning no one e'er could tell.
Send forth the women;—draw a little nigher;
My brain is heating with prophetic fire.
_Rig. Fun._ Matrons, abscond! (_They depart glumpishly; carrying
off the Mediciner._) Now, Dad, I'm all attention,
To learn the wisdom that's past comprehension.
_Moore._ "The fiery Mars with furious fury rages."
_Rig. Fun._ I've penn'd that down, most erudite of sages!
_Moore._ "The Dog-star kindles with inflaming ire."
_Rig. Fun._ Just wait a moment, while I stir the fire.
_Moore._ "Terrific portents flame along the sky;
"I know the cause,—but dare not mention why."
_Rig. Fun._ (_aside_) Which shews your prophecying's all my eye.
_Moore._ "The planets are the book in which I read,—"
_Rig. Fun._ I'm very glad to hear that you succeed.
You've better luck than when you went to school;
For there, I guess, they perch'd you on a stool.
_Moore._ I read this solemn truth, as in a glass,—
'Whate'er will happen's sure to come to pass;'
"And if it don't, why 'set me down an ass.'"
_Rig. Fun._ That's done already; for to me 'twas plain,
An ass you were, and ever would remain.
_Moore._ Avaunt! I'll speak no more to ears profane.
[_The scene openeth, and discovereth the Shade of the great
Astrologer_, LILLY, _enveloped in a fog, who claspeth_ FRANCIS
MOORE _in his arms, and mizzleth off with him in a mist_.—_N.B.
The renowned_ PHYSICIAN _droppeth his threadbare mantle, which
falleth on_ RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, _who maketh his exit therewith
joyfully_.
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
│ JANUARY. │ [1835.│
├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
│ │When you first go to bathe, gentle Sir, in a river, │
│ │If you dip in one foot, it will give you a shiver; │
│ │But if you've the pluck to plunge in your whole body, │
│ │You'll not shiver at all, you poor timid noddy! │
│ │Just so with my rhymes,—I've got thro' my first │
│ │ trouble: │
│ │Had I stood shilly-shally, my toil had been double. │
├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
│ M│ Season's │ =Odd Matters.= │ WEATHER. │
│ D│ Signs. │ │ │
├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
│ 1│toes │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 2│nose │ COMFORTS OF THE SEASON. │ Weather │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 3│froze │Chilblains sore on all your toes, │ likely │
│ │ │Icicles hang from your nose │ │
│ 4│blue │Rheumatis' in all your limbs; │ ☍ ☌ △ ♄ │
│ │ │Noddle full of aches and whims; │ │
│ 5│who │Chaps upon your hands and lips, │ to be │
│ │ │And lumbago in your hips. │ │
│ 6│you │To your bed you shiv'ring creep, │ cold │
│ │ │There to freeze, but not to sleep; │ │
│ 7│ice │For the sheets, that look so nice, │ │
│ │ │Are to you two sheets of ice; │ □ ♃ △ ♂ │
│ 8│trice │Wearied out, at length you doze, │ │
│ │ │And snatch, at last, a brief repose, │ if │
│ 9│down │Dream all night that you're a dab, │ │
│ │ │Lying on fishmonger's slab. │ │
│10│crown │While indulging in a snore, │ the frost │
│ │ │There comes a rap at chamber door; │ │
│11│folk │Screaming voice of Betty cries: │ │
│ │ │"If you please, it's time to rise." │ △ ⚹ ☉ │
│12│joke │Up you start, and, on the sheet, │ │
│ │ │Find your breath is chang'd to sleet; │is very old:│
│13│in │Tow'rds the glass you turn your view, │ │
│ │ │Find your nose of purple hue, │ │
│14│grin │Looking very like, I trow, │ If no snow │
│ │ │Beet-root in a field of snow. │ │
│15│out │You would longer lie, but nay, │ ☿ ♄ △ ♂ □ │
│ │ │Time is come,—you must away. │ │
│16│shout │Out you turn, with courage brave, │ │
│ │ │Slip on drawers,—and then to shave! │ should │
│17│cram │Seize the jug, and in a trice, │ │
│ │ │Find the water chang'd to ice: │ chance to │
│18│ham │Break the ice, and have to rue │ │
│ │ │That you've broke the pitcher too. │ fall │
│19│jam │Water would not run before; │ │
│ │ │Now, it streams upon the floor, │ │
│20│dram │Threat'ning with a fearful doom, │ □ ☌ ⚹ ☉ │
│ │ │Ceiling of the drawing-room. │ │
│21│twelfth │In the frenzy of despair, │ │
│ │ │You seize you don't know what, nor care, │ then │
│22│night │Mop up all the wet and dirt, │ │
│ │ │And find you've done it with your shirt; │ perhaps │
│23│bright │Your _only_ shirt,—all filth and slosh,— │ │
│ │ │_For all the rest are in the wash._ │ │
│24│sight │Into bed you turn again, │ ☿ △ ♂ ☉ ⚹ │
│ │ │Ring the bell with might and main, │ │
│25│bake │Stammer out to Betty, why │ □ ♄ │
│ │ │'Twixt the sheets you're forc'd to lie, │ │
│26│cake │'Till, pitying your feelings hurt, │ │
│ │ │She dabs you out another shirt. │ no frost │
│27│nice │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│28│slice │ │ ☉ □ △ │
│ │ │ │ │
│29│twice │ │ │
│ │ │ │ at all. │
│30│quaff │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│31│laugh │ │ ♃ △ ☍ □ ♂ │
└──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘
[Illustration:
JANUARY.
]