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Cast

Lord Byron

JC Hobhouse

Francis Hodgson

SB Davies

Lord Sligo​​

James Perry

Nicholas Byrne

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1806 - Byron's rooms, Trinity College - Lord Sligo drops by - the mood is subdued​

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S: Afternoon all

All: Sligo

S(holds nose): Sweet mother of divine! - what an unholy mess! (trips over a set of stays) - euch! who would claim such a villainous seedbed of dice and drunkenness?

B: You can blame Hobhouse for the stagnant Burgundy - Scrope for our losses at Hazard..

SBD: ... and Hunting, and Mathematically unsound gaming odds and Newmarket and Riot and Racing (whips out The Racing Post)

B: Yet for all that (removes eye mask) - it is a Paradise compared to Southwell -  - (inhales deeply) I require a bath - damned be to it I have transported Boyce, the precious rascal  The Rev. Jones was Byron’s long-suffering tutor at Trinity

S: Hodgson? You're the only man whose circulatory system seems to be fully functioning - did Hazard happen to favour you last eve?

FH: I'm saving for a wife

S: As the rest of ye are all in an insensible heap - harken! - this may bring you back to life (opens the Morning Post)

B: The Post? Nicholas Byrne - that odious flatterer of our flatulent old King and his pusillanimous offspring

S: Mother forwarded it to me, it keeps good account of the grain and bean situation at home in Westport - vital if I'm to get decent credit in the Row - however - Byron, you should like this - are ye listening at all? (reluctant groans all round)

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Our Nation's foes, lament on Fox's death,

But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath;

These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

We give the palm, where Justice points its due...

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​​​​B(grabs paper): Oh! those factious Tory vipers whose envenom'd teeth would mangle still the dead! And Fox but a month in this grave! - Pitt but ten!

S: Devil take ye! Give me back my Post and not disparage that sub-standard hack Mr. Byrne - why, Mother sends him a sack of Kerr's Pinks every 13th of March - for luck - and (reddens) - well - Father will never learn (B smirks)

SBD: Indeed, friends - I think we've had enough of politicking - shall we dress and voyage Forth to that lobster-clawed sanctuary of hungry men? - i.e. - the Cocoa Tree?

​H(grabs paper): What though “our nation's foes"  lament the fate - with generous feeling - of the good and great?

FH(grabs paper): Shall therefore the dastard tongues of Grub Street assail the name of him whose virtues claim eternal fame?​​​​​

B: ... and libel a corpse? - enshroud him with insults - and worse! - a suboptimal nickname?

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SBD - expert enough to know when the odds are against him, departs for the Cocoa Tree - alone

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H: Let not canker'd calumny assail, and round our statesman wind her gloomy veil

S(nervously): By all the saints gentlemen! - both men are in their Whiggy heaven now amending - with their mistresses and streams of blue ruin attending (chuckles)

B: Be damned to your blasphemy, Sligo - 'twould make a dog bite his father! We shall drag - slowly -  your Mr. Byrne over the redhot ploughshares of liability - Hobby? - get dressed - we are to the offices of the Post! - bath first (rings bell)

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Once immaculate and recovered, H and B head for that trough of malice, hackery and envy - Grub Street

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​​​​​Scene 2

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Office of the Morning Post​

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B: Good day t'ye, young lady (bows) - I am Lord Byron - undergraduate, author and outraged citizen of a free country - I demand to speak with your Mr. Byrne

Sec: Students is it? pfft - Mr. Byrne ain't in

B: In that case, Mr. Hobhouse - also an undergraduate of said fine old University - and I shall wait - we require an ashtray, an egg, and two - nay one - cup of cold green tea

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catholic question

Idle Conduct of that precious 1:3 Rascal,

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B: When Pitt expired in plenitude of power - though ill success obscur'd his dying hour - pity her dewy wings before him spread - for noble spirits "war not with the dead"

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His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave, and all his errors slumber'd in the grave

He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight of cares oppressing our unhappy state

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Pitt, although often referred to as a Tory, or "new Tory", called himself an "independent Whig" and was generally opposed to the development of a strict partisan political system.

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The historian Asa Briggs argues that his personality did not endear itself to the British mind, for Pitt was too solitary and too colourless, and too often exuded an attitude of superiority. His greatness came in the war with France. Pitt reacted to become what Lord Minto called "the Atlas of our reeling globe". William Wilberforce said, "For personal purity, disinterestedness and love of this country, I have never known his equal."[1] Historian Charles Petrie concludes that he was one of the greatest prime ministers "if on no other ground than that he enabled the country to pass from the old order to the new without any violent upheaval ... He understood the new Britain."[2] For this he is ranked highly amongst all British prime ministers in multiple surveys.[3][4] 19 years!776, Pitt, plagued by poor health, took advantage of a little-used privilege available only to the sons of noblemen, and chose to graduate without having to pass examinations.

Grenville left office with Pitt in 1801 over the issue of George III's refusal to assent to Catholic emancipation.[10]

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Above the rest, majestically great,
Behold the infant Atlas of the state,
The matchless miracle of modern days,
In whom Britannia to the world displays
A sight to make surrounding nations stare;
A kingdom trusted to a school-boy's care. the rolliad

Pitt became known as a "three-bottle man" in reference to his heavy consumption of port wine.

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But lo! another Hercules appear'd,

Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd;

He too is fallen dead! who still our England propp'd,

With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd;

Not one great people only raise his urn,

All Europe's far extended regions mourn.

"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

"And give the palm where Justice points it due;"

But let not canker'd calumny assail,

And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep;

For whom at last, even hostile nations groan,

And friends and foes alike his talents own;

Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine,

Nor e'en to Pitt, the patriot's palm resign;

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,

For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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​​​​​Scene 3

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Office of the Mornig Chronicle​

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B: Afternoon Perry - I wish to subjoined a reply to the verses y, for Insertion in the MORNING CHRONICLE.—

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​​​​​End

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