The Fine Ladys Airs | Page 6

Fellows that han't sense to value a Civil Employment are necessary to front an Army, whose thick Sculls may repulse the first Fury of the Enemy's Cannon Bullets.
Shr. I hope, then, the English are so wise to let the Dutch march foremost.--But why, Sir, shou'd you Gentlemen ingross all the Pleasures o'Life, and not allow us poor Dogs to imitate you in our own Sphere;--You wear lac'd Coats; We lac'd Liv'ries;--You play at Picquet; We at All-Fours;--You get drunk with Burgundy; We with Geneva;--You pinck Holes with your Swords; We crack Sculls with our Sticks;--You are Gentlemen; We are hang'd.
Sir Har. A fine Relation; but, methinks, the latter Part of it might deter you from such Courses.
Shr. I'm a Predestinarian, Sir; which is an Argument of a great Soul, and will no more baulk a drunken Frolick, than I would a pretty Lady that takes a Fancy to me.
Sir Har. No more of your Impertinence; attend, I hear Company (Shrimp _goes to the Door_) Brigadier Blenheim return'd from the Army!
Enter Collonel, and Knapsack.
Sir Har. My noblest, dearest Collonel, let me imbrace you as a Britain, and as a Friend. Ajax ne'er boasted English Valour; Ulysses ne'er such Conduct; nor Alexander such Successes. The Queen rejoices; the Parliament vote you Thanks; and ev'ry honest Loyal Heart bounds at our General's Name.
Col. Ay, Sir Harry, to be thus receiv'd, rewards the Soldier's Toils; and, faith, we have maul'd the fancy _French-men,_ near Twenty Thousand we left fast asleep, taught the remaining few a new Minuet-step, and sent 'em home to sing Te Deum.
Knap. Ay, Sir, and if they are not satisfied, next Campaign the English shall stand still, and laugh at their Endeavours; the Dutch Snigger-snee 'em; the Scotch Cook them; and the wild Irish eat 'em.
Col. Oh! The glorious Din of War; the Energy of a good Cause, and the Emulation of a brave Confederacy.--To sound the Charge; Make a vigorous Attack, the Enemy gives ground,--To pour on fresh Vollies of a sure Destruction, and return deafn'd with shouts o' Victory, and adorn'd with glitt'ring Standards of the vanquish'd Foe.
Knap. To hang up in _Westminster-Hall_, and make the Lawyers stare off their Briefs;--But the Harmony of sounding a Retreat,--to hug my self with two Arms, and walk substantially upon both my Pedestals, or the health of Mind in lying sick at Amsterdam.
Col. Ay, here's a sorry Rascal, that lags always behind, and is afraid to look Death i'the Face.
Knap. Why, really, Sir, 'tisn't manners to march before the _Colonel_; and upon a warm Engagement, I have heard you talk musically of good Conduct. Besides, that Mr._ Death_ is but a Hatchet-face Beau, so lean, and wither'd like an old Dutchess, or a Doctor o' Physick, I had as live see the Devil.
Sir Har. But when the Lines are forc'd, the Enemy slain, and the Placs loaded with rich Plunder.--
Knap. None so nimble, none so valiant, none so expert as your very humble Servant Nehemiah Knapsack.
Col. But, who are the raigning Beauties o'the Age? What Favours will they grant a Soldier after a hard Campaign, fatiguing Marches, desp'rate Attempts, and narrow Escapes, to preserve them from Rapine, Violence, and Slav'ry, that they may laugh away the Day in gay Diversions, and pass the silent Night in silver Slumbers on their Downy Beds?
Sir Har. Just as many Favours as you have Money or Mechlin Lace to purchase: Women apprehend not the Danger of War, and therefore have no Notion of Gratitude.
Coll. Oh! The thoughts of scatt'ring small Shot among the sparkling Tribe, to feast my Senses upon dear Variety, have ev'ry Day a new dazling Beauty, and ev'ry Hour to taste the Joys of Love.
Sir Har. Don't fancy, Collonel, because you have beat the French you must conquer all the Ladies; there are Women that dare resist you boldly, will exact your Courage beyond attacking a Fortress, and maintain a hotter Engagement.
_Col._ If you mean Women of the Town, some of 'em wou'd give a Man a warm Reception--Yet I long to be traversing the Park, ogling at the Play, peeping up at Windows, and ferreting the Warren o' _Covent-Garden_, till I seize on some skittish dapper Doxie, whose pretty black Eyes, dimpling Cheeks, heaving Breasts, and soft Caresses, wou'd melt a Man--for half a Guinea.
Knap. How I long too, to wheedle in with some Buxom Widow, that keeps a Victualling-House, to provide me with Meat, Drink, Washing and Lodging--to find out some delicious Chamber-Maid, that will pawn her best Mohair-Gown, sell even her Silver-Thimble, and rob her Mistress to shew how truly she loves me; or intrigue with some Heroick Sempstress, that will call me her Artaxerxes, her Agamemnon, and give me six new Shirts.
Sir Har. And now the tedious Summer is elaps'd, and Winter ushers in neglected Joys; Armies march home