note! thou'rt balm and manna!Mags to Pop. (who is reading it over Mr. C.'s shoulder.)
Is it from his wife?
Pop. (slaps his thigh.)
No! from Miss Juliana!"
Clipclose, when he reads it, rushes out; Mags after him. Poppleton attempts to follow, but is detained by pot-boy. He forks out tanner, and disappears. Solo —Apollonicon. Hurried music descriptive of three cabs: Clipclose in 793, at a rapid pace; Mags, 1659; Poppleton 1847, pursuing. Scene closes.
Thompson and Fearon's, Holborn; gin-palace at full work; company less select than numerous, and ladies and gentlemen taking "some'ut short" at the counter. Enter, in full uniform. Captain Connor; O'Toole and Blowhard in shell jackets. They call for a flash of lightning, touch glasses affectionately, and bolt the ruin. The captain stumps down for all.
Blow.– Lass! (to an attendant, whom he chucks under the chin,) some more jacky! Connor, do you still
Bend at the shrine of her on Ludgate-hill?
OT. (contemptuously).– Zounds! a cit's helpmate. That would never do.
One of us Guards, and one of taste like you.
Capt.– Faith, honest Blowhard, and you, my pal, O'Toole,
Tho' fond of flirting, yet your friend's no fool!
Think ye that I could live upon my pay,
And keep four wives on three and six a day?
No. Let me have a monied mistress still,
My El Dorado be a tradesman's till.
Love fed by flimsies, is the love that thrives,
And let the mercers keep the Guardsman's wives.
O'T.– I see how matters stand, my trump; enough.
Blow. (to O'T.) – He's wide awake, Tim. (To the Capt.) Con. you're up to snuff!
Capt.– Come, one more round of jacky, and we part, —
I, to the peerless lady of my heart
In Stamford-street; – to Knightsbridge barrack you;
And mind don't split that I was out at Kew.
A drawing-room; doors in the flat; one opening into Miss Juliana Smashaway's boudoir, and the other to her bed-chamber. She is discovered standing at the window in a pensive attitude. She sighs heavily, and rubs her temples with "eau de Cologne."
Miss S.– He comes not – half-past four! Ah, fickle Connor!
Is this thy plighted faith, and thrice-pledged honour?
Was it for this, I waived a grocer's hand,
And twice refused a counter in the Strand,
Sent back an offer from a Tenth Hussar,
And without warning left Soho bazaar,
Rejected Griskin, that rich man of mutton;
Shy'd Lincoln Stanhope, and cut Manners Sutton?
1st voice.– Fare's sixteen-pence, and with one bob I'm shamm'd! Fork out the four-pence!
2nd voice. First I'd see you d – d!
Miss S. (with considerable spirit.) – Unhand me, fellow! Whence this bold intrusion?
I think I'll faint, I feel in such confusion.
Oh, come, Juliana, lay aside your anger and surprise;
One trifling kiss you'll scarcely miss, you know.
I saw a ready pardon seal'd already in your eyes,
Else, 'pon my soul! I scarce had ventur'd so.
True, sir; but you, sir,
Should recollect what's due, sir,
To one so young and innocent
A trifling kiss you'll scarcely miss, you know.
I saw a ready pardon seal'd already in your eyes,
Else, 'pon my soul! I had not ventur'd so.
Miss S.– Lost – lost for ever!
Mr. C. Pray, madam, what's the matter?
Miss S.– Heard ye no broadsword on the pavement clatter?
Mr. C.– A broadsword! Zounds! My teeth begin to chatter!
Miss S.– Where shall I hide him? – (Opens the chamber door.) – In, sir, or you 're dead.
Mr. C.– Can nothing save me?
Miss S. Creep beneath the bed.
Mags.– She's quite alone. Oh, happy Matthew Mags!
Maid.– A chap's below who says he's Samuel Snags.
Mags.– I'm a done man; for that 'ere cove will blow me.
Miss S.– Follow me in, and I will safely stow ye.
Snags.– Divine Miss Smashaway, I humbly kneel
To plead a passion you can never feel;
A smile will save, a frown as surely kill,
One who for you has robb'd his master's till.
Miss S.– Well, after that the man deserves some pity. —
Knocking again! and here comes my maid Kitty.
Maid.– One Mr. Poppleton.
Miss S. Was ever one so courted?
Snags.– All's up with me; for life I'll be transported!
Ma'am, could you save a lover?
Miss S. Let me see.
Oh, yes; the bed will surely cover three.
Pop.– Where is my charmer?
Maid (to Pop.) Sir, you're dead as mutton;
The Captain's come. Your life's not worth a button.
Pop.– Where shall I hide?
Miss S.
