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Updated: May 15, 2025
"I think Buckingham was never so gay and handsome, and takes his imprisonment as the best joke that ever was, and is as great at Court as ever." "His Majesty is but too indulgent," said Masaroon, "and encourages the Duke to be insolent and careless of ceremony. He had the impertinence to show himself at chapel before he had waited on his Majesty."
Why, we slept under the same blanket in the trenches before Dunkirk; we rode shoulder to shoulder through the rain of bullets at Chitillon; and to pick a trumpery quarrel with a brother-in-arms!" "I wonder the quarrel was not picked earlier," Masaroon answered bluntly. "Your courtship of the gentleman's wife has been notorious for the last five years." "Call it not courtship, Ralph.
The wine poured in a red stream from his point-lace cravat, but had not touched his face. "There shall be something redder than Burgundy spilt before we have done!" he said. "Sacre nom, nous sommes tombes dans un antre de betes sauvages!" exclaimed Masaroon, starting up, and anxiously examining the skirts of his brocade coat, lest that sudden deluge had caught him.
Lady Sarah Tewkesbury, gorgeous in velvet and fur, her thickly painted countenance framed in a furred hood, entered fussily upon a little coterie in which Masaroon, vapouring about the last performance at the King's theatre, was the principal figure.
"Gud, my lord, it is vastly old-fashioned in your lordship to taste Shakespeare!" protested Sir Ralph Masaroon, shaking a cloud of pulvilio out of his cataract of curls. "There was a pretty enough play concocted t'other day out of two of his a tragedy and comedy Measure for Measure and Much Ado about Nothing, the interstices filled in with the utmost ingenuity.
"Colbert adores the King, and is blind to his follies, which are no more economical than the vulgar pleasures of your jovial Rowley." "Who takes four shillings in every country gentleman's pound to spend on the pleasures of London," interjected Masaroon. "Royalty is plaguey expensive." The company sighed a melancholy assent.
Is any one hurt? I'll wager a thousand pounds you devils have been fighting." "De Malfort is stabbed!" Masaroon answered. "Not dead?" she shrieked, leaning farther out of the window. "No; but it looks dangerous." "Bring him into my house this instant! I'll send my fellows to help. Have you sent for a surgeon?" "The surgeon is here."
The loose white robe was stripped off, and little Jerry Spavinger, gentleman jock, famous on the Heath, and at Doncaster, stood revealed, in his shirt and breeches, and those light riding-boots which he rarely exchanged for a more courtly chaussure. The monks, hustled out of their disguise, were Rochester, Masaroon, and Lady Sarah's young brother, George Saddington.
Nay, so essential is foulness to the modern stage that when the manager ventures a serious play, he takes care to introduce it with some filthy prologue, and to spice the finish with a filthier epilogue." "Zounds, Fareham!" cried Masaroon, "when one has yawned or slept through five acts of dull heroics, one needs to be stung into wakefulness by a high-spiced epilogue.
Rochester and Sir Ralph Masaroon, and one Jerry Spavinger, a gentleman jockey, who was a nobody in town, but a shining light at Newmarket, took it upon themselves to draw the harmless citizen, and, as a preliminary to making him ridiculous, essayed to make him drunk.
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