Gentlemen Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.

Scene-BATH.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON

Ir we have sinn'd in paring down a name,
All civil, well-bred authors do the same.
Survey the columns of our daily writers-
You'll find that some Initials are great fighters.
How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,
When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.

With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard,
Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard!
Letter to letter spreads the dire alarms,
Till half the alphabet is up in arms.
Nor with less lustre have Initials shone,
To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con.,
Where the dispensers of the public lash
Soft penance give; a letter and a dash-

Where vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing,
And loses half her grossness by curtailing.
Faux pas are told in such a modest way-
The affair of Colonel B. with Mrs. A.-
You must forgive them-for what is there, say,
Which such a pliant vowel must not grant
To such a very pressing consonant?
Or who poetic justice dares dispute,
When mildly melting at a lover's suit.
The wife's a liquid, her good man a inute?
Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,
The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,
Initials, I am told, have taken place

Of deary, spouse, and that oldfashioned race,
And Cabbage, ask'd by Brother Snip to tea,
Replies, "I'll come-but it don't rest with me-
I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."
Oh should this mincing fashion ever spread
From names of living heroes to the dead,

How would ambition sigh, and hang the head,

As each loved syllable should melt away

Her Alexander turned into Great A.

A single C. her Cesar to express—

Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S.

And nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech. Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H.

M R. H—.

A FARCE-IN TWO ACTS.

ACT I.

SCENE.-A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, &c.

Enter Mr. H.

Mr. H. Landlord, has the man brought home my boots ? Landlord. Yes, sir.

Mr. H. You have paid him?

Landlord. There is the receipt, sir, only not quite filled up; no name; only blank-" Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best hessians." Now, sir, he wishes to know what

name he shall put in; who he shall say "Dr."

Mr. H. Why, Mr. H., to be sure.

Landlord. So I told him, sir; but Zekiel has some qualms about it. He says, he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law.

Mr. H. Rot his impertinence, bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me with his scruples.

Landlord. I shall, sir.

[Exit.

Enter a Waiter.

Waiter. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and a brace of pheasants for Mr. H.

Mr. H. Give the man half a crown, and bid him return my best respects to his master.

Presents, it seems, will find me

out, with any name or no name.

Enter 2d Waiter.

2d Waiter. Sir, the man that makes up the directory is at the

door.

Mr. H. Give him a shilling, that is what these fellows come for.

2d Waiter. He has sent up to know by what name your honour will please to be inserted.

Mr. H. Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out, my name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous. [Exit 2d Waiter

Enter 3d Waiter.

[Exit.

This from Melesinda,

3d Waiter. Two letters for Mr. H. Mr. H. From ladies (opens them.) to remind me of the morning call I promised; the pretty creature positively languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her (affectedly.) This from her cousin to bespeak me to some party, I suppose (opening it)—Oh, "this evening"" Tea and cards"-(surveying himself with complacency.) Dear H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a favourite among the ladies; I wish it may not be owing to the concealment of thy unfortunate-pshaw!

Enter 4th Waiter.

4th Waiter. Sir. one Mr, Printagain is inquiring for you. Mr. H. Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by subscription. Give him a guinea, and tell him to put me down.

4th Waiter. What name shall I tell him, sir?

Mr. H. Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name. [Exit 4th Warter.

Enter 5th Waiter.

5th Waiter. Sir, Bartlemy, the lame beggar that you sent a private donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered his benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks.

Mr. H. Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head, Now I shall be teazed by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well, tell him I am glad I could be of any service to him, and send him away.

5th Waiter. I would have done so, sir; but the object of his call now, he says, is only to know whom he is obliged to Mr. H. Why, me.

5th Waiter. Yes, sir.