Clear, clear the course—make room—make room, I say! Now they are off, and _Jonson_ makes the play. I’ll bet the odds—done, sir, with you, and you; SHAKESPEARE keeps near him—and he’ll win it too: Here’s even money—done for a hundred, done— Now, _Jonson!_ now or never—he has won. I’ll take my oath, that SHAKESPEARE won the prize,— Damme! whoever says he lost it, lies. _Shakespeare’s Garland. Being a Collection of New Songs, Ballads, Roundelays, Catches, Glees, Comic Serenatas, etc., performed at the Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon_, 1769, p. 16. ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, 1769 (_d._ 1812?) “_Queen Mab. A Cantata._” RECITATIVE Not long ago, ’tis said, a proclamation Was sent abroad through all the Fairy nation; Mab to her loving subjects—A decree, At Shakespeare’s tomb to hold a Jubilee. ACCOMPANIED The night was come, and now on Avon’s side The pigmy race was seen, Attended by their queen, On chafers some, and some on crickets ride. The queen appear’d from far, Mounted in a nut-shell car; Six painted lady-birds the carriage drew: And now the cavalcade, In order due array’d, March’d first Where erst The sacred Mulb’ry grew, And there their homage paid. Next they sought the holy ground, And while A thousand glow-worm torches glimmer’d round; Thus Good Fellow, the herald of his fame, Did from the alabaster height proclaim The poet’s titles and his style. AIR SHAKESPEARE, heaven’s most favour’d creature, Truest copier of Nature, First of the Parnassian train; Chiefest fav’rite of the Muses, Which soe’er the poet chooses, Blest alike in ev’ry strain. Life’s great censor, and inspector, Fancy’s treasurer, wit’s director, Artless, to the shame of art; Master of the various passions, Leader of all inclinations, Sov’reign of the human heart. RECITATIVE Then did the queen an acorn take, Fill’d with morn and ev’ning dew, Brush’d from ev’ry fragrant brake That round the lawns of Stratford grew. ACCOMPANIED “And thus,” said she, “libation do I make To our friend and father’s shade: ’Twas Shakespeare that the Fairies made; And men shall give us honour for his sake.” AIR O happy bard, whose potent skill Can give existence where it will! Let giant wisdom strive to chase From man’s belief the Fairy race; Religion stern our pow’r reject, Philosophy our tales neglect, Only trusting what ’tis seeing; Combat us howe’er they list, In thy scenes we shall exist, Sure as if Nature gave us being.