('_To the Gay Tournament._')
To the gay tournament
The Queen of Beauty goes;
He shall gain a prize from her
Who most his courage shows--
Singing, singing, 'Though others fair may be,
Nobody, nobody, can be compare to thee!'
_Grog._--Soon will the conqueror,
With trophy and with wreath,
Kneel on his bended knee
My throne low beneath--
Singing, singing, 'Though others fair may be,
Nobody, nobody can be compared with me.'
_King, Lord Nimroddy, and Graciosa,_ (_aside,_)
Bold must the champion be
Who can that boast maintain;
He, for audacity,
The prize must surely gain.
Swinging, hanging on the highest tree,
For such a lie, such a lie, he deserves to be.
_Cho._--To the gay tournament, &c. [_Exeunt._ (R.)
SCENE IV. TILT-YARD OF THE PALACE. _The Lists set out for a Tournament.
Throne for the_ QUEEN OF BEAUTY; _another for the_ KING; _a Chair of
State for the_ PRINCESS. _Pavilions of the Knights-Challengers, &c._
GROGNON, KING, GRACIOSA, _Knights, Courtiers, Guards, Heralds, &c.,
discovered_.
_Herald._--O yes! O yes! O yes! take notice, pray,
Here are six noble knights, in arms to-day;
Who swear, that never yet was lady seen
So lovely as our new-elected Queen!
Against all comers they will prove 'tis so.
Oh yes! oh yes! oh yes!
_Enter_ PERCINET ( L.) _in Green Armour._
_Per._--I say, oh no!
_Grog._--Who's this Jack in the green?
_Gra._ [_aside_] Sure, _I_ know who!
_King._--Do you know what you say?
_Per._--And mean it, too!
_King._--How! come to court, and say just what you mean!
You're a Green Knight, indeed!
_Per._--Sir Turnham Green!
Of Brentford's royal house a princely scion,
Knight of its ancient order, the Red Lion;
Baron of Hammersmith, a Count of Kew,
Marquis of Kensington, and Lord knows who.
But all these titles willingly I waive
For one more dear--Fair Graciosa's slave!
I'll prove it, on the crest of great or small,
She's Beauty's Queen, who holds my heart in thrall,
And Grognon is a foul and ugly witch!
_King._--If you're a gentleman, behave as _sich_!
_Per._--Come one, come all! here, I throw down my gage!
_King._--A green gage, seemingly!
_Grog._--I choke with rage!
To arms! my knights!
[_The Knights enter their Pavilions._
_Gra._--I'll bet a crown he mills 'em!
_King._--Laissez Aller! That's go it, if it kills 'em!"
I have no patience for such pitiful slaver! And yet this is the sort of
trash which half London is flocking nightly to see, and for which the
glorious English drama has been discarded and disdained!
I lay down my pen in utter weariness of the flesh. The jingle of that
last jargon is still ringing in my ears; and in order to get rid of
it--for if I do not speedily, I am booked as a Bauldie for life--I shall
step down to Astley's, and refresh my British feelings by beholding Mr
Gomersal overthrown (for the twentieth time this season) upon the field
of Waterloo.