Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat; Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four? Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief." "Thank you," cries Pat, "but one won't make a line;" "Take mine," cried Wilson, and cried Stokes, "take mine." A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue, Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand, Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band. Up soars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeign'd, Regain'd the felt, and felt what he regain'd, While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat. _To the Managing Committee of the New Drury Lane Theatre._ 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 enclosed 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.