THE DEAD ALIVE: A COMIC OPERA.
IN TWO ACTS.
AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES IN LONDON AND DUBLIN.
By JOHN O'KEEFFE, ESQ.
DUBLIN: SOLD BY THE BOOKSELLERS.
- Sir Walter Weathercock,MR. GEMEA.
- Edward,MR. JOHNSTON.
- Undertaker,MR. FOTTERALL.
- Sheers,MR. O'REILLY.
- Motley,MR. CORNELYS.
- Dennis,MR. KANE.
- Degagee,MR. WITHINGTON.
- Coachman,MR. LYNCH.
- Hannibal,MR. MURPHY.
- Miss Hebe Wintertop,MRS. HEAPHY.
- Comfit,MRS. HITCHCOCK.
- Caroline,MRS. JOHNSTON.
Servants, &c.Page [unnumbered]
THE DEAD ALIVE.
IT is indeed a thousand pities so generous a gentle|man as our master, shou'd be thus oblig'd to part with half his servants, merely for want of the means to retain them.
Ay, Dennis, master's a free horse, but the world's a deep road, and spirit won't bring wheels thro' without the hard meat—so poor master's knock'd up at last.
What, and Monsieur struck off too?
Why Monsieur Degagee, by your mirth nobody could suppose you had lost a good place this morning.
Oui, Monsieur Denni, I am turn off a mon maitre this morning; when I did get out of bed, I was in place, and to-night when I get into bed, I shall be out of place. Ah, ha!
I see when missortune comes—
Oui, I am one pauvre, unfortunate miserable—Monsieur Denni, maitre Jean, attendezmi landlor did once set fire his own house, and burn me out out of my logement—five pound for de first engine!—I was make Page 4 my escape out of de vinder in my shirt—crack went de slame widin—whiz went de water widout—the engine did play upon pauvre me, and de mob did laugh at me, as if I vas une Comedie or Farce.
Ay, the farce of fire and water.
Fire and water, non!—I vas roast and drown—ver good—I scape vid the von shirt all wet, and was held to dry too near de fire, it was burn too; all de shirt I had in de world—but all one to Degagee.
Oui Vraiment, pauvre moi, attendez—after dat I was go to France in de suite of a mi Lor Aagloise, den I was tink to come back to England, and set up de grand shop in Pall-mall, and did lay out all my l'argent in de silk stocking, de tambour wastecoat, and lace ruffles; perfume poudre, and paresols for my shop—I did put all in de Dutch bottom, but at sea, up did come de little sailor Anglois—vid de new copper breeches, and pauf shoot off our masts and sail, and drag us into Ports|mouth, and sing—"Always are ready."
You were tow'd in.
I no understand dat toe.
Why Monsieur the little English sailor with the copper breeches, took the Dutchman by the toe, and dragg'd his bottom into Portsmouth.
Ban est vrai, but il tout perdue—and den I vas san sit sous and sans souci—I lost all—but den, par ha|zard I vas come live wid dat bon tete, mon maitre, Mon|sieur Edward, vat you call Sandford,—alas! he is all broke—and ma foi—I am all broke again—aussi de debris of my wages, two, three guineas, and my cof|ter vid some pomade, comb, curling iron, and three pound mareschale.
Oui, pauvre moi, maitre Jean, you loose your place too—but you are prepare for de fast, you carry your beef vid you—here is de beef.
Page 5And here is de shoulder of de beef, and de leg of de beef, aussi, and de head of de beef aussi.
And Monsieur I have de fist of de beef.
Very heavy morbleu, come make a de peace, be|gar my king make a de good peace vid your king, so do you make de peace vid Degagee.
Our king, heaven bless him, holds the rein for his subjects, and he'll always hold a whip for the moun|sieurs.
Vat, he vil whip de Monsieurs!
Ah, my little dog, mosh oblige Monsieur Grizley Voyez, Monsieur Denni Voyez, Maitre Jean, look at dis pretty dog,—I am turn oft a mon Maitre, pauvre, miserable—he is turn oft aussi.
I am sorry we lose you, Monsieur.
And I am sorry, so full of sorry as all de vorld!—Lol, lol, lol! Santez—Ah, jump up my little dog, mon petit Santez jedit, allons done—Lol, lol, lol! Bon jour, Maitre Jean—Adieu, Monsieur Denni.
What a merry piece of distress!
Monsieur knows his swarthy phiz, and broken English, soon recommend him to a lady of quality.
What, and Blacky goes too?
Oh, oh! me no live wid good massa no more; oh, oh!—what me do for de mush good eat and drink, oh, oh!
You shall soil with me you dog—cry, you may well cry at quitting your master; you're grown as sleek and as plump as a bishop's coach horse in his service—but courage, Hannibal, your sleece and complexion soon get you into bread—but when shall I mount a box again? Ah, I'm an Englishman! Well, I hope to see the day when that will be a better recommendation to Page 6 an English nobleman than being a Monsieur or a Black-amoor.
Oh, I must strip fine coat— oh!
Yes, and that turbot off your head too.
No, John, my master desires you and Hannibal may keep your liveries.
What, and may I take the harness I have on—bless his handsome heart! Well Dennis, you stay—good bye, lad—when you chance to drive towards Lei|cester Fields, I shall be glad to take a watering tankard with you at the Coach and Horses; but mayhap, like the great courtiers, you scorn to know an old acquaint|ance out of place.
No, John, I'm not so polite as that yet.
Come along, Hannibal—gee up! off we go into the world again! but up or down, wet or dry, thro' thick or thin, prosperity and better fortune to my dear master. Gee up—ay, ay.
Poor fellows! I cannot help feeling for them.
Sad at parting with your companions, Dennis?
Not more griev'd than they were, Sir, at quit|ting so good a master as your honour.
Poor fellows! ay, Dennis, integrity and fidelity like other obsolete fashions, seem to be cast off by the great—it's natural that they here and there be pick'd up by their inferiors—Any body here this morning?
Mr. Wormwood, Sir, to let you know he'd call no more for his money.
I am oblig'd to him.
For he has put the affair into the attorney's hands.
And the rascal paid his own debts with half a crown in the pound—now, my sole dependance is upon my old friend Rushstaff.
Mr. Rushstaff left his compliments, Sir, is sorry Page 7 he can't oblige you, as he has not more than will just enable him to take the box at Brookes's to-night.
Well, well—a verbal answer to my letter; his good manners he levels to his sincerity—my friend too.
My dear, dear, Edward!
My sweet Caroline.
Such a delicious scheme as I have devised for our relief—Come, come, I'll have no more melan|choly.
For myself I shou'd not care; if single, I cou'd elbow my way thro' the bustle of this busy world; but to involve you, my love, a partner in my poverty—
Poor pretty bird! then it cou'd soaring cleave the air and sweetly chirp the song of freedom, if not im|peded by its troublesome, yet affectionate male.
But Edward, is the carriage gone?
Sold by auction.
You are so hasty—but no matter—if my plot don't lift us into another, welcome a calash and pattens—let us first methodically state out case to fortune, and in|voke her aid.
My wealthy uncle, Sir Walter Weathercock —
Wou'd have married my rich aunt, Miss Hebe Wintertop.
A quarrel on the bridal morn, broke off the match.
Hate succeeds to love.
Or rather anger to dotage.
At this period, I possessing an ardent passion for Caroline—
And I, having no aversion for Edward—
Are forbid by the old ones to hold further in|tercourse with each other, on pain of their immortal dis|pleasure, but nobly sacrificing interest to love, you ran away with me.
O fie, Edward! it was you ran away with me.
Married scarce a twelve month, our mutual par|tiality for good house-keeping has brought our stock to the last guinea—and no living without money.
Then let us die.
Yes,—my life to yours, it enables us to live comfortably hereafter.
Ha, ha, ha! pleasant enough this! but Caro|line, I confess I can't comprehend how dying can con|duce to a person's living comfortably—Ha, ha, ha!
You laugh, but I am serious.
Death is indeed a serious subject—but come, your scheme.
It lies thus—you shall instantly go to your aunt, in all the suppos'd grief of a disconsolate widower, tell her that I died this morning: I'll to my uncle, and tell him the same story of you—Now, each supposing the cause of their displeasure for ever remov'd, will,(I make no doubt) restore us again into favour, supply us with an ample sum for the present, and settle on each an affluent appointment in future.
But the discovery of such a fraud—
How—they never see each other, perhaps ne|ver may—then their circle is so remote from ours—or, at worst, can we be poorer, or farther remov'd from, their favour than at present.
Say no more, I am dead.
And I, gone with the doleful news to my un|cle—I fear nothing but a laugh to prevent my success.
And that we do succeed, dear fortune grant.
If Sir Walter shou'd see me now—what then—I'll tell him, says I,—if wrinkled bachelors keep smooth cheek'd house-keepers, "as Squire Ranger says," we clever young fellows have a right—I'd tell him—if he had not a cane in his hand—cane or no cane, I'd—Here he is—I had as good hide myself.
Now who cou'd imagine that a simple country girl as I was five years ago, cou'd turn out such a—I'm very ugly to be sure.
What can become of this wretch, Motley?
I know the fellow loves me.
He'd leap at marrying me.
I'd look twice first.
I'm certainly a handsome girl.
Yes, and you don't know it.
But these men—Motley's perhaps at this mo|ment, list'ning to some conceited hussey of other.
I am indeed.
I'm sorry Motley's so poor.
Upon my soul, so am I.
But my three hundred pound—
Say no more, I'll have it.
Ah, Motley, you devil, how cou'd you frighten a body so?
Take me! for as Jacques, the huntsman, says—"Motley's your only man."
Who says so?
Jacques, in the play of "How d'ye like it."—There, where Harlequin Touchstone is—"Motley," says he, "is your only man," and he did not know me from Adam, only it came so apropos.
Motley, you improv'd during the year you liv'd with the actress.
Yes, I think I did a little.
But how came she to part with you?
Because I was a Pagan.
Yes—you must know she gave me a shilling one night to go to the twelve-penny gallery, and order'd me, after she sung a song, to cry out ongiorum.
Ongiorum is Latin for, don't sing any more. Well, up I mounted—but unfortunately taking a glass too much with a friend I met in the gallery—instead of my mistress, when one Mr.Damon, who play'd, the De|vil that night, had sung his, song, I roar'd out—onco|rum, oncorum, Red Stockings—so my mistress turn'd me off next morning; for, says she, (looking in the glass, after your fashion just now) none but a Pagan, cou'd mistake a Devil for an Angel.
Poor Motley!—Pray, what sort of people are there players?
What sort!—Lord, my dear Comfit, of all sorts.
That's a good song—but I wish you were down stairs, for my master makes this his way to the study, and his aversion to your mistress is such—I think I hear him—if he sees you I am ruin'd.
He can't remember me.
Hush, he's here—don't speak, and I'll get you off.
Comfit, I wanted to ask—who's that?
The lad, Sir, belongs to Mr. Quack, the famous rheumatism man, ••at advertises to supply elderly gentle|men with calves.
Calves! his master's a grazier,—ha!
No, Sir, a gouty doctor.
Oh! the doctor has the gout?
No, no, Sir, he cures the rheumatism, gout, and dropsy.
Have you a dropsy? eh Comfit!
No, Sir, but the doctor gives this young man leave to turn a penny for himself in the fortune telling-way.
A fortune-teller!—I'll take a peep thro' his telescope of futurity—Pray friend—
Why does he make faces at me? can't he speak?
He can't speak, Sir, for many reasons—first he's dumb—secondly—
Hold—your first reason is sufficient for his not speaking—shall I ever marry?
He means yes, Sir.
He lies!—if so, shall I be happy?—Eh!
He means Sir, that matrimony will send you to Heaven.
Thro' Cuckold's-gate, Sir Walter Weather|cock call'd cuckold, by a mumming magician! a second|hand son of a sorcerer! a hey-cockolorum conjuror! a wizard with a pig-tail! How long have you been dumb, sirrah?
Sir, I was born dumb—Zounds!
In my life I never heard a dumb man speak so plain.
Such a blockhead!
Cures dropsies! raises dropsies I fancy, eh, Comfit!—the doctor provides rams as well as calves—this is a ram of Jacob's breed—parti-colour'd, streak'd and pied.
Yes, Sir, I come to—what the devil did I come about;
I see you are come Sir, but what brought you, Sir?
With his lady's compliments for the honor of your company this evening—I know he won't go.
And pray, hussy, have you no butt but your master for your hums and haws.
Sir, I beg your pardon, but I knew your spirit wou'd reject with scorn an offer from Miss Wintertop, and so, Sir, to save the poor lad from the dreadful effects of your fury, I thought to have got him out of the house without your knowledge.
I believe I ought to be angry here
Oncorum, red stockings again, by gad—I'll mol|lify him to some tune out of the Beggar's Opera.
Mrs. Sandford, is below Sir, and insists on coming up.
What, my niece! I won't see her—I'll, never see her, tell her so.
She's here, Sir.
So niece, I find you will add another twig to the rod of disobedience, by thus intruding contrary to my express commands.
Ah, Sir! your rigour would dissolve to pity and forgiveness, did you know my calamitous situation.
Pity! your tears play'd off at rny heart, are are Spanish onions against the rock of Gibraltar—you wou'd marry Miss Wintertop's nephew; tho' you knew how injuriously I was us'd by that old coxcom his aunt. You have a husband, and so—make much of him.
Alas, Sir! I have no husband.
I said he wou'd run away from you, when you became poor.
Ah, Sir, wrong not the memory of the—Oh, wretched Caroline! Alas, Sir, my husband's dead.
Edward dead!—gad so niece, I ask your pardon—I'm sorry—I am faith—poor thing—Eh! gad!—now Edward is gone, I begin to think he was a wor|they lad—now he's gone, I—
For ever—ever gone!
Well, we m'ust only take care of those that stay behind,—we must have a handsome funeral,—but I'll go see the body.
Oh, if she's there, I'll stay here—Caroline, no money left I soppose—Ay, Edward a Bon Vivant! liv'd all the days of his life.
Sir, this goodness—
Come, child, you are a young widow, don't let your tears impair your beauty.
Oh, Sir, think on what I have lost.
And Edward's dead! it must be for my kind condolence that his aunt sent for me; I'm sorry I Page 16 treated her message with such contempt—Heigh ho! I feel my love for her revive. I'll wait on her at her own house, 'tho' the sight of Edward has made her so sad—Ay, no making love when a dead man's in company.
A Chamber at Miss Wintertop's.
Only a gentleman wou'd speak with Miss Wintertop.
Your most obedient—my nephew! how dare you Richard, call me to any person with previous|ly bringing up their name.
I fear'd a knowledge of mine, madam, might deprive me of the honour, which I now enjoy; but did you know the fatal disaster that occasioned—
I don't love disasters, and I now tell, once for all, nephew, your disasters shall never be the less for me; your disobedient marriage with Sir Walter's niece, has—
Ah! Madam, that marriage is eternally dis|solv'd.
Elop'd! I thought she'd turn out as fashionable a wife as e'er a Duchess of 'em all! but in|deed what can •e expected when ladies wear uniforms, and pay morning visits with phaetons and ponies—gone off! fine doings.
My Caroline, Madam, was compell'd to yield; the careful parent, and the tender husband, daily, with tears behold the wife and maiden ravish'd from their arms by that insatiate monster! that general Gallant.
He rude to maidens too! the filthy fellow—what street does he live in?
My grief, too copious for common language swell'd into a metaphor; the gallant I mean, madam, was death.
Death! well I never knew you to bring a pleasant story.
What does the man mean by his blubber|ing and bellowing?
Excuse my tears—but my Caroline is no more.
Caroline dead—Oh, that's another thing! well nephew, tho' your match was repugnant to my will, I don't rejoice at your wife's death.
That's very good of you, madam.
But how, and when, pray, did this affair happen?
This morning, suddenly! I hope the necessity of seeing you will excuse the indecorum of my being seen abroad so soon.
Necessity! no money left I suppose—well, I find this accident has somewhat relax'd my severity. Pray, do you ever see that civil gentleman her uncle? I fancy your extravagance has render'd you the object of his bounty, but a nephew of mine, never shall be oblig'd to him—I'll send you some money—come, child, you must not give way to grief.
O madam! had I never known the amiable qualities of Caroline, I shou'd not have such cause to la|ment her loss.
Sir Walter's attention to Edward and Ca|roline has given a gentle puff to the dying embers of my love, and if—
Sir Walter Weathercock, madam.
Oh, he has surpriz'd me at a most dismal criterion—admit him—Edward's tale has depress'd my spirits in the abyss of a lethargic torpitude.
Madam,—I see she's in great grief for the death of her nephew.
His niece's death affects him extremely.
Oh, Hebe! Hebe! my lovely old darling!
Old darling! as rude as ever.
You are sorrowful—I don't wonder at it—well—accept my sincere condolence.
Yes, you must feel for the death of so dear a relation—has it alter'd Caroline much? how does she look?
Yes, death wears a dismal aspect.
You've seen Edward.
Lost his fine complexion I suppose.
No, I think he looks as well as ever.
Ay, sudden death, I fancy, does not change the countenance much.
Your niece was very young.
She's rising twenty—Edward, I fancy, was not above twenty-three.
He'll be twenty-four his next birth-day.
Birth-day to a dead man.
Yes, he's gone home—I wish you'd follow him, Sir Walter.
I am oblig'd to you, madam, but I hope I shan't go to his home these thirty years.
Now that's unkind, the sight of a friend in the hour of trouble is such a comfort.
A great comfort indeed.
Heaven forbid—no, when people quit this world, I beg to be excus'd from any further inter|course.
Why, madam, tho' my niece may be said to be out of this world now, yet the funeral vow, and a Page 19 few Lethean tears shed, I warrant her youth attracts the butterflies.
Butterflies! the worms I think you mean, Sir Walter.
Worms! why to be sure divested of their gaudy outside, the macaronies are a species of grubs—but come, my angelic Hebe! let us forget our silly quar|rels—here let me take this vernal sprig, as earnest of the sole possession of thee, thou aromatic shrub of winter savory.
Oh, you amorous Philander!
Oh, extasy! Hebe, get your nephew buried, and then we'll be married in—
Wait till my nephew is buried?
Nay, I only speak for decency sake.
How, Sir? wou'd you infer that I wou'd deviate from the rules of decency? I shou'd imagine when your niece is buried; the wedding—
My niece buried! why she's crack'd.
Bury my nephew?
To be sure! wou'd you hang him up be|tween two loadstones like Mahomet of Mecca.
Bury my nephew! why he's mad.
You know your nephew is dead.
No, but you know your niece is dead.
Did not you say your niece had left this world?
Did not you say your nephew was gone to his long home.
I tell you Edward left this room as you en|ter'd it.
I tell you, I saw Caroline at my house just now.
Sir, I don't think it safe to stay in a place with you.
Madam, I shou'dn't have troubled your place, if you had not sent for me.
I send for you, Sir!
Deny that too—here comes the very fellow who brought the message.
Madam, the—Ha, he here! damnation! this is the second time to day he cross'd the way.
Pray Motley did I send you to Sir Walter Weathercock's this morning?
Nothing but a lye can save me.
Speak, friend, did not I see you at my house to-day?
Me! Oh Lord, Sir! not me, indeed.
Oh you infernal son of a—do you forget you were dumb.
Dumb! Oh dear Sir, don't say that of me! my lady I warrant wou'd not keep me an hour, if she suspected I was dumb—Lord, madam, am I dumb?
Ridiculous! it must be somebody else.
Oh Sir, ridiculous! it must be somebody else.
Brav'd out of the belief of my ears and eyes!—as for you, sirrah—
Can'st eat a crocodile—drink like a weazle.
I'll weazle you, and weasand you too you dog.
Let Hercules himself do what he may, the dog will bark—the cat will have fair play.
Since you are so positive, to—
And you so obstinate, I'll send to Edward's house and learn the truth.
HA, ha, ha! well my dear Edward, now all's over, the success of ou• little trick is even beyond my expectation.
Yes, my dear, but the benevolent effects of their credulity almost gives our little trick the air of a crime, and the shame of a detection.
You're ever raising phantoms to scare yourself—the dread of meeting your aunt here will keep Sir Walter away.
True, and the fear of seeing him will secure us from her visits, but I expect her messenger with the cash every moment.
Well, I'm prepar'd here within, shou'd he be curious.
A servant from your aunt, Sir.
I'll to my post of mortality.
"Even such a man so spiritless—so woe be|gone, &c."—Sir, I am sorry for your loss—my lady, Sir, desires me to see the—Oh!
There she lies.
As handsome a corpse as a man wou'd wish to look on, as Lord Romeo says—"Death has not suck'd the honey from her cheeks, and his pale lieutenant—no—his ensign, is not quarter'd there."
Any commands from my aunt?
Yes, Sir, she commands you to prop up your spirits with old stout Madeira.—She commands you Sir, to take a bumper yourself, and to give three bum|pers to every body that comes to see you, gentle and sim|ple.
I suppose, Sir, you'll have the funeral obse|quiors; if so, Sir, I'd have you, Sir, far the credit of, the thing, hire Solomon Durges to sing at it.
Oh, bitter separation!
Consider, Sir, your lady, is in heaven, where you can never come, and for your sake, I hope your separa|tion may long continue—her death is the cause of your grief—therefore, Sir, I wish you joy.
'Sdeath! she has sent no money.—
No, Sir, only a letter.
She is indeed a comely corpse—Oh, life's an Italian shadow, a strolling player, that falls thro a trap-door upon the stage, and then is seen no more.
Thank ye, Mr. Solomon Durges! but what Page 24 has our kind aunt sent us? four hundred!—very hand|some indeed.
Mrs. Cypress, Madam, the black Milliner.
To take orders for your weeds—Ha, ha, ha!
Ah, my frizeur shall supply me with craping for weeds—Italian flowers—and for love, I wear it on my heart.
Another Chamber in Edward's House.
Mr. Sheers, Sir,—I'll tell him, Sir.
Yes, Mr. Sheers, to take orders for his mourning.
"Hearse—mourning-coaches—scarss—pall." Um—ay—if the cash was plenty this might turn out a pretty, sprightly funeral.
Scarfs—a merry death—coffin—um—ay—
A sudden affair this, Sir!
Sudden—ah! I'm always prepar'd for death.
Sign of a good liver.
No tradesman within the bills of mortality lives better.
You've many customers then, Sir.
Not one breathing.
You disoblige them, perhaps.
Why the truth is, Sir, tho' my friends wou'd die to serve me, yet I can't keep one three days without turning up my nose at him—Odso! I forgot to take measure of the body.
Oh, oh!—A brother taylor—you measure nobody here.
Yes, I shall—Mr. Sandford's body.
For what, pray?
For a wooden furtout lin'd with white sattin.
Odd sort of mourning.
You! I know I have had it, since St. James's church-yard was set on fire by old Mattack the grave-digger, twenty years last influenza business. I have nine|teen bodies under lock and key this moment.
You may have bodies, skirts, cuffs, and but|tons—My business!—ask my foreman—I don't set a stitch—I'm merely an undertaker.
Undertaker! so am I—and for work—
Now I do no work—I cut out indeed—
Cut out! Oh you embowel 'em perhaps—can you make a mummy in the Egyptian fashion?
I never made masquerade habits.
What! cou'd you stuff a person of rank, to send him sweet over sea.
Stuff! persons of rank—Irish tabinets are in stile for people of rank.
Nothing like sage, thyme, pepper, and salt.
Pepper and salt! thunder and lightning for a colour.
Thunder and lightning! why you are in the clouds, man—in one word, cou'd you pickle a Duke?
I pickle a Duke!
Cou'd you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a coat for a hatchment without the help of a Herald?
Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gen|tleman of that name.
Mr. Hatchment, you've a scull as thick as a tombstone.
Mayhap so, but I'll let you know no cross|legg'd, and bandy button-making, Bedford bury, shred|seller, shall rip a customer from me.
Friend, depart in peace—or my cane shall make you a Memento Mori to all impertinent rascals.
Here's a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man—lay by your cane, and I'll talk to you.
Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!
Hey! what's all this?
A villain!—Why here's another Undertaker insists that's he that's to bury your master.
O thread and needles! I bury a gentleman! but egad you're a frolicksome taylor.
Taylor!—Oh you son of a Sexton! call you me taylor! a more capital Undertaker than yourself.
Zounds, man, I'm no Undertaker! I'm a tay|lor.
And Zounds, man—taylor, I mean—I'm an Undertaker.
I perceive this mistake.
My Lady is not dead.
Your Lady not dead!
No, nor my master neither.
Your master not dead!
Then perhaps he don't want to be buried.
Not alive, I believe.
The most good for nothing family in the pa|rish.
By these sheers, parchment of mine shall ne|ver cross a shoulder in it.
Zounds I'll go home, and bury myself for the good of my family.
Then you will be positive, Sir Walter.
Yes, when I'm right. I never was wrong but once in my life; and that was in preferring the wing to the leg of a rabbit.
Psha! I tell you 'tis your niece that's gone.
And I tell you, 'tis your nephew that's gone.
Gone down the Burn from whence no traveller returns back again.
Oh my dumb fortune-teller! is this fellow's word your authority? if that rascal this moment swore I held my own nose, I'd have him cropp'd for perjury—consider I am a Privy Counsellor.
Ha, ha, ha!
For shame, Motley, how dare you laugh!
I beg your pardon, madam; but it wou'd make a Chancellor laugh to see a fool take a, Privy Counsellor by nose.
Sir Walter! have you no respect for my livery.
Ay, Sir, wou'd you beat lady's livery?
Well, I'll not dust the rascal's jacket this bout; here's your health Hebe—but I'm sure I'm right.
Then I suppose, Sir Walter, it's to this ob|stinacy of adherence to your own opinion I am beholden for this honour.
Don't say so! for that sherbet was nectar from the hand of my divine Hebe, and inclines me to fancy myself a little Jove.
Jove in his chair of the sky Lord Mayor!
Are you there still?—Withdraw you ras|cal.
It is not safe to leave you two alone, till Doctor Thump has made you too in one.
Mercy on me!
What's the matter?
We are alone indeed.
This room has double doors.
If I cry out nobody can hear me.
Cry out! what ails you?
If you shou'd be rude now.
Me! I shan't touch you.
I've heard that you gentlemen never slip a• opportunity of kissing a lady when you get her alone.
Well, Comfit, who's shrouded?
All's over, Sir.
I said so.
And so did I.
But such a lovely corpse.
Motley's words—be positive again, Sir Wal|ter—has he sent any message?
Who, Dennis, madam.
What Dennis? I mean my nephew.
Lord ma'am, he's—I'm sorry to say it, but your nephew's dead.
Be positive again, Miss Hebe.
My nephew dead—Motley!
Dead! why not? Gad she fancies all her family to be Saturns, or Pluto's, or some old immortal gods or other.
Pray, Motley, who did you give my letter to?
To your nephew, madam.
Are you sure?
Sure—by the same token he said—Motley, says he, you're a fine fellow, you're as honest as—an iron chest; and if your lady knew how, to reward a good ser|vant, she'd take half a guinea out of her own silk purse, with her lily white hand, and say, there Motley, drink my health, my good friend.
Mr. Edward say all this! Oh, you notorious, abominable—the dear gentleman I saw stretch'd—and Mrs. Caroline told me.
She speak! Oh you notorious abominable—The dear lady that at this moment is as pretty a corpse as ever enter'd a church-yard heels foremost.
You saucy, impudent—so I'm not to be be|liev'd.
I wou'd not believe my father, when I knew he was telling a lye.
I know it's Edward.
I'm sure it's Caroline.
Well, madam, since you are so positive—
And you so obstinate—I'll go this moment to Edward's house, and prove your folly to a shameful conviction.
And to prove you—take an ass in your com|pany, I'll go with you myself.
Comical fish in our pond—Ha, ha, ha! you car|ried it on extremely well.
Carried it on—what does the man mean?
Why sure, you was not in earnest?
Eh!—why that's good faith—and you believe too that it's Mr. Edward that's dead.
I know it.
I say it's Mrs. Caroline.
Say, but what do you think—come I see a lye in that brazen face.
Then my brass is highly polish'd, and serves for looking glass. No, if the lady had surviv'd, I'd have it her myself—"Before her shoes were broke, with which she follow'd her husband to the grave, like Nob|b•, all in tears."
Upon my word.
Yes, and have her! for widows now take hus|bands, as the boys box—one down t'other comes on—she's jealous.—
Carry your kisses to King's Place, puppy.
To King's Place! what, with this case of pockets.
Are all the cards ready for Tuesday se'nnight, Dennis?
The last bottle of Champagne, Dennis?
Ay, Sir, it shou'd be good, for it has not its fel|low in the house.
Well, my cellar died like Seneca; you've sent to my merchant for the old quantum of champagne, claret and burgundy?
Yes, Sir, old Grizley's gone this half hour.
I wish he was here—I thirst to pour out a crimson libation of thanksgiving to fortune, our propiti|ous deity—Caroline, take one glass—come, I'll give you a toast for its passport—Here's reconciliation with Ame|rica, and let Rodney transfer her flag, and give Thirteen Stripes to the French and Spaniards.
I heard a noise!
It's old Grizley with the wine, madam; he sometimes since, the servants went away, leaves the door at a jar.
Then come in old Grizley with the wine.
Why here's the Dead Alive!—What news from the other world, Sir?
Was it you pray, Mr. Orphens, that brought back your Euridice?
How is old Scratch, and all our black friends below—this bottle from Pluto's side-board, I suppose
Sir here's—Mr. Edward!—A ghost! a ghost!
The wench is crack'd—Mrs. Caroline! "Avaunt and quit my fight! Thy blood is marrowless, thy bone is cold, and no spectacles upon those eyes you glare with."
How now, boy?
"Ay, and a bold boy too, to look on that—that looks like Paul the devil."
Such an audacious fraud! pretended to die.
Ay, are not you asham'd to be alive.
The truth is, Sir, our money was departed, and our credit expir'd.
And we cou'd no longer have liv'd in earnest, had we not died in jest.
By gad and a good jest It was, and I am glad it was a jest—Eh,—shall I—yes—Ha, ha, ha! I will laugh—Ha, ha, ha! Hebe—you must grant me two trifles, forgive them, and marry me.
Lord, Sir Walter!
You must, you shall, and first your virgin hand—as to the young folks, the fault was partly ours, to suffer our whimsical caprices to abandon them to po|verty; I'd never let a child want money, for necessity of|ten obliges a person to do that, which otherwise he'd blush to think of.
It was a knavish affair—but I forgive you—and Sir Walter, I am yours for ever.