In 1854 Robert Barnabas Brough wrote a one-act farce that centers on mustaches:
LOUISA. (looking at his moustache rapturously) And yours are such loves! (caressing them)
SOSKINS. (putting his hand up nervously) D—don’t pull ’em about.
LOUISA. (passionately) I wouldn’t injure a hair of them for worlds! — For they are the load-star of my existence!
SOSKINS. (aside) Ahem! (seriously, taking her hand, walking her up and down) Louisa, I fear it is the moustache and not the man you love.
LOUISA. Oh! don’t say that, Anthony — though I own it was they first won me, two months ago, when we met at the Eagle …
In the end she tells the audience, “I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to moustaches, to like this play as an advocate for their growing — and I charge you, O men, for the anxiety you have to grow moustaches … that on the hundredth night I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, moustaches that liked me, and whiskers that were dyed not.”