To leave your downy slumbers — George. Poetry !
Maey. It is my custom, sir — But age like yours May suffer from the chill air of the morning. George. A brave girl, faith : Mary. (Aside.) 'T is one of those
strange persons, My father spoke of — would that he would go. Sir R. Why, as you say, my dear, — that
is — in fact — George. Nay, charge again, brave cavalier. Sir R. In truth then,
My errand here so early, was to seek A runagate nephew. George. Meaning me. —
Sir R. a rascal !
Pray, lady, have you met him*? Mary. Sir, I know not
The person you enquire for. Sir R. I '11 describe him.
George. Now for a flattering portrait. Sir R. {Aside.) I'll disgust her
Lest he, perchance, should meet her —
He 's a fellow Of an indifferent person, which his tailor Cannot make handsome; yet he thinks
himself The only true Adonis. He has language If you can understand it. When he
speaks, 'T is in a lisp or oath. His gait 's be- tween A swagger and a dance. His grin 's from
France, His leer from Cyprus. He 's a Turk in
morals, And is of that religion no man knows
of: In fine, he 's as ridiculous as dangerous — A mongrel thing; a slip of the coxcomb,
madam. Grafted upon the rake. Mary. Sir, you describe
A monster. Sir R. You have hit it : that is he,
Should he approach you shun him. Mary. "" Sir, I shall.
George. Here 's a kind uncle : but I '11 be reveng-'d.
(Sir Reginald hows and exit.) Mary. He should have come last night : yet here 's the morning. And yet he comes not. He cannot have
pass'd me. Is it because this is his homcAvard path That I am loitering here ? I fear it is —
0, I am most imprudent — most forget- ful— ^
I fear most sinful. George. {Descending, and comes down the stage on the left.)
Now he 's out of sight.
And now for the encounter — Madam, your slave.
Nay start not; I am not the monster, lady.
That gouty person pictur'd. Did you know him
But half so well as I, you 'd not believe him.
Or did you but know me, but half so well
As I would have you, and you would be- lieve him
To be the most transcendant of ro- mancers.
Bunyan's book, madam, is true history,
To that he speaks. He was a soldier once.
But was cashier'd for lying. Mande- ville.
The greatest liar of antiquity.
May be hereafter quoted as authentic.
When he 's believ'd — And I 'm his nephew, too !
A pleasant jest: he kept the wild beasts, madam.
In London, till they turn'd him off for stealing
The lion's supper — Yet a single moment. Mary. What would you, sir? George. You see, before you, lady.
The most unfortunate young fellow breathing,
Banish'd to this strange country for the crime
Of being too susceptible — and sentenc'd
To die a lingering death upon the rack.
Unless your smile reprieve him. Mary. This is strange:
I do not understand you. George. If my words
Lack meaning, lady, look into my eyes,
And thro' them to my heart, and see en- shrin'd
Your worshipp'd image there — Mary. Most wonderful,
What language is 't you speak, sir"? George. Ma'am: what language*?
English, I think. The pretty simpleton!
Bred in the woods, to her a metaphor
Is Heathen Greek. Madam, those fool- ish figures
Are nil the mode at court; and mean, my dear.
