Chapter XXXII: Part III: Programmes for Special Occasions (5)

_C. G._ Well, Martha, we’re both in the same boat. If you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it’s a terrible disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant Marion Giles, the pretty milliner.

_Aunt M._ Humph! What an old goose! She wouldn’t look at you! I heerd her laffing at your swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last Sunday. But I’m ready to keep silence if you will. Gracious! if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, shouldn’t we have to take it?

_C. G._ Hark! what’s that? (_voice behind the lilac-bush sings_:)

“Oh, there’s many a bud the cold frost will nip,
And there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.”

_Aunt M._ That’s Jack’s voice! Goodness me! Let us scoot for home!

_Jack._ Did he kiss you, Aunt Mattie?

_Mary._ Do you like the smell of cloves, Uncle Cyrus?

_C. G._ Confound you both! If I had hold of ye I’d let you know if I like to smell cloves, and birch, too.

(_Curtain falls._)

MRS. MALAPROP AND CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

_From “The Rivals.”_

_Costumes._

MRS. MALAPROP, _Crimson satin dress, trimmed with white lace and
satin ribbon._

CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE, _Scarlet regimental full-dress coat, white
breeches, silk stockings and cocked hat._

_Enter MRS. MALAPROP, with a letter in her hand, CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE following._

_Mrs. Malaprop._ Your being Sir Anthony’s son, Captain, would itself be a sufficient accommodation; but from the ingenuity of your appearance, I am convinced you deserve the character here given of you.

_Capt. A._ Permit me to say, madame, that as I have never yet had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this affair, at present, is the honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop, of whose intellectual accomplishments, elegant manners and unaffected learning no tongue is silent.

_Mrs. M._ Sir, you do me infinite honor! I beg, Captain, you’ll be seated. [_Both sit._] Ah! few gentlemen, nowadays, know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman! Men have no sense now but for the worthless flower of beauty.

_Capt. A._ It is but too true, indeed, ma’am; yet I fear our ladies should share the blame; they think our admiration of beauty so great that knowledge in them would be superfluous. Thus, like garden trees, they seldom show fruit till time has robbed them of the more spacious blossoms: few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange tree, are rich in both at once.

_Mrs. M._ Sir, you overpower me with good breeding. [_Aside._] He is the very pineapple of politeness! You are not ignorant, Captain, that this giddy girl has, somehow, contrived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eavesdropping ensign, whom none of us have seen, and nobody knows anything of.

_Capt. A._ Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. I’m not at all prejudiced against her on that account. But it must be very distressing, indeed, to you, ma’am.

_Mrs. M._ Oh, it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree!—I thought she had persisted from corresponding with him; but, behold, this very day, I have interceded another letter from the fellow—I believe I have it in my pocket.

_Capt. A._ My last note! [_Aside._]

_Mrs. M._ Ay, here it is.

_Capt. A._ Oh, the little traitress, Lucy!

_Mrs. M._ There, perhaps you may know the writing. [_Gives him the letter._]

_Capt. A._ I think I have seen the hand before—yes, I certainly must have seen this hand before.

_Mrs. M._ Nay, but read it, Captain.

_Capt. A._ [_reads_.] “My soul’s idol, my adored Lydia!” Very tender, indeed!

_Mrs. M._ Tender! ay, and profane too, o’my conscience.

_Capt. A._ “I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence you send me, the more so as my new rival”——

_Mrs. M._ That’s you, sir.

_Capt. A._ “Has universally the character of being an accomplished gentleman and a man of honor.” Well, that’s handsome enough.

_Mrs. M._ Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so.

_Capt. A._ That he had, I’ll answer for him, ma’am.

_Mrs. M._ But go on, sir—you’ll see presently.

_Capt. A._ “As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon who guards you”?—who can he mean by that?

_Mrs. M._ Me, sir—me—he means me there—what do you think now?—but go on a little further.

_Capt. A._ Impudent scoundrel!—“it shall go hard, but I will elude her vigilance! as I am told that the same ridiculous vanity which makes her dress up her coarse features and deck her dull chat with hard words which she don’t understand”——

_Mrs. M._ There, sir, an attack upon my language! what do you think of that?—an aspersion upon my parts of speech! was ever such a brute! Sure, if I reprehend anything in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs.

_Capt. A._ He deserves to be hanged and quartered! let me see—“same ridiculous vanity”——

_Mrs. M._ You need not read it again, sir!

_Capt. A._ I beg pardon, ma’am—“does also lay her open to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration”—an impudent coxcomb—“so that I have a scheme to see you shortly, with the old harridan’s consent, and even to make her a go-between in our interviews”—Was ever such assurance!

_Mrs. M._ Did you ever hear anything like it? [_They rise._] He’ll elude my vigilance, will he?—yes, yes!—ha! ha! he’s very likely to enter these doors!—we’ll try who can run best!

_Capt. A._ So we will, ma’am—so we will—Ha! ha! ha! a conceited puppy! ha! ha! ha!—Well, but Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you were to wink at her corresponding with him for a little time—let her even plot an elopement with him—then do you connive at her escape—while I, just in the nick, will have the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to carry her off in his stead.

_Mrs. M._ I am delighted with the scheme; never was anything better perpetrated.

_Capt. A._ But, pray, could I not see the lady for a few minutes now?—I should like to try her temper a little.

_Mrs. M._ Why, I don’t know—I doubt she is not prepared for a visit of this kind. There is a decorum in these matters.

_Capt. A._ O, she won’t mind me!—only tell her Beverley——

_Mrs. M._ Sir!

_Capt. A._ Gently, good tongue! [_Aside._]

_Mrs. M._ What did you say of Beverley?

_Capt. A._ Oh, I was going to propose that you should tell her, by way of jest, that it was Beverley who was below—she’d come down fast enough then—ha! ha! ha!

_Mrs. M._ ’Twould be a trick she well deserves—besides, you know, the fellow tells her he’ll get my consent to see her—ha! ha!—Let him, if he can, I say again.—Lydia, come down here! [_Calling._] He’ll make me a go-between in their interviews!—ha! ha! ha!—Come down, I say, Lydia!—I don’t wonder at your laughing—ha! ha! ha! his impudence is truly ridiculous.

_Capt. A._ ’Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma’am!—ha! ha! ha!

_Mrs. M._ The little hussy won’t hear. Well, I’ll go and tell her at once who it is—she shall know that Captain Absolute is come to wait on her; and I’ll make her behave as becomes a young woman.

_Capt. A._ As you please ma’am.

_Mrs. M._ For the present, Captain, your servant—Ah! you’ve not done laughing yet, I see—elude my vigilance! yes, yes—Ha! ha! ha! [_Exit._

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

WINNING A WIDOW.

_Characters._

MRS. CUMMISKEY, _A Middle-aged Widow_.
MR. COSTELLO, _An Old Bachelor_.

SCENE.—_MRS. C.’S dwelling. Table set. MR. C. outside._

_Mr. C._ Good evenin’ to you, ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ Good evenin’ to you, Mr. Costello.

_Mr. C._ It’s fine weather we’re havin’, ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ It is that, thank God, but the winter’s comin’ at last, and it comes to all, both great and small.

_Mr. C._ Ah! but for all that it doesn’t come to all alike. Nowhere are you, ma’am, fat, rosy and good-lookin’, equally swate as a summer greenin’, a fall pippin or a winter russet—

_Mrs. C._ Arrah, hould your whist, now. Much an old bachelor like you knows about apples or women. But come in, Mr. Costello, and take a cup o’ tay with me, for I was only standin’ be the door lookin’ at the people passin’ for company sake, like, and I’m sure the kittle must have sung itself hoarse. [_MR. C. enters and sits._]

_Mr. C._ It’s very cosy ye are here, Mrs. Cummiskey.

_Mrs. C._ Yes. [_Lays the supper._] It is that whin I do be havin’ company.

_Mr. C._ Ah! it must be lonesome for you with only yer cat and the cup o’ tay.

_Mrs. C._ Sure it is. But sit up to the table, Mr. Costello. Help yourself to this fish, and don’t furget the purtaties. Look at them; they’re splittin’ their sides wid laughin’. [_She pours tea._]

_Mr. C._ I’m sensible of the comforts of a home, Mrs. Cummiskey, though I’ve none meself. Mind now, the difference between the taste o’ tay made and sarved that way and the tay they gives you in an aitin’-house.

_Mrs. C._ Sure there’s nothin’ like a little home of yer own. I wonder yer never got marrit, Mr. Costello.

_Mr. C._ I was about to make the same remark in rifference to yerself, ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ God help us, aren’t I a widder woman this seven years?

_Mr. C._ Ah, but it’s thinkin’ I was why ye didn’t get marrit again.

_Mrs. C._ Well, it’s sure I am [_thoughtfully setting down her teacup and raising her hand by way of emphasis_], there was no betther husband to any woman than him that’s dead and gone, heaven save an’ rest his sowl. He was that asy a child could do anything wid him, and he was as humorous as a monkey. You favor him very much, Mr. Costello. He was about your height, and complicted like you.

_Mr. C._ Ah!

_Mrs. C._ He often used to say to me in his banterin’ way, Sure, Nora, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife is a widder, manin’, you know, that all the timptations and luxuries of this life can never folly a man beyant the grave. Sure, Nora, says he, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife’s a widder?

_Mr. C._ It was a sensible sayin’ that [_helping himself to more fish_].

_Mrs. C._ I mind the day John died. He knew everything to the last, and about four o’clock in the afthernoon—it was seventeen minutes past five exactly, be the clock, that he died—he says to me, Nora, says he, you’ve been a good wife, says he, an’ I’ve been a good husband, says he, an’ so there’s no love lost atween us, says he, an’ I could give ye a good characthur to any place, says he, an’ I wish ye could do the same for me where I’m goin’, says he; but it’s case equal, says he, an’ every dog has his day, an’ some has a day an’ a half, says he, an’ says he, I’ll know more in a bit than Father Corrigan himself, says he, but I’ll say now, says he, that I’ve always been a true son of the Church, says he, so I’ll not bother my brains about it; an’ he says, says he, I lave ye in good hands, Nora for I lave you in your hands, says he; an’ if at any time ye see any wan ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he. Ah, Nora, says he, for the first time spakin’ it solemn like, ah, Nora, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife’s a widder? An’ says he, I lave fifty dollars for masses, and the rest I lave to yourself, said he, an’ I needn’t tell ye to be a good mother to the childer’, says he, for well ye know there are none. Ah, poor John! Will ye have another cup of tay, Mr. Costello?

_Mr. C._ It must have been very hard on ye [_passing cup_]. Thank ye, ma’am, no more.

_Mrs. C._ It was hard, but time will tell. I must cast about me for my own livin’; and so I got intil this place an’ here I am to-day. [_Both rise from the table and seat themselves before the fire._]

_Mr. C._ Ah! an’ here we are both of us this evenin.’

_Mrs. C._ Here we are, sure enough.

_Mr. C._ And so I mind ye of—of him, do I?

_Mrs. C._ That ye do. Ye favor him greatly. Dark complicted, an’ the same plisint smile.

_Mr. C._ Now, with me sittin’ here an’ you sittin’ there ferninst me, ye might almost think ye were marrit agin. [_Insinuatingly._]

_Mrs. C._ Ah, go away now for a taze that ye are. [_Mussing her apron by rolling the corners of it._]

_Mr. C._ I disremember what it was ye said about seein’ any man you liked betther nor him. [_Moving his chair nearer to that of the widow._]

_Mrs. C._ He said, said he [_smoothing her apron over her knees_], Nora, said he, if anny time ye see anny man ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he.

_Mr. C._ Did he say anything about anny one ye liked as good as him?

_Mrs. C._ I don’t mind that he did. [_Reflectively, folding her hands in her lap._]

_Mr. C._ I suppose he left that to yerself?

_Mrs. C._ Faith, an’ I don’t know, thin.

_Mr. C._ Div ye think ye like me as well as ye did him? [_Persuasively, leaning forward to look into the widow’s eyes, which are cast down._]

_Mrs. C._ Ah, go away now for a taze. [_Straightening herself and playfully slapping MR. COSTELLO on the face. He moves his chair still nearer, and puts his arm around her waist._]

_Mr. C._ Tell me, div ye like me as well as ye did him?

_Mrs. C._ I—I most—I most disremember now how much I liked him. [_Embarrassed._]

_Mr. C._ Ah, now, don’t be breakin’ me heart. Answer me this question, Mrs. Cummiskey—Is your heart tender toward me?

_Mrs. C._ It is [_whispers_], an’ there, now ye have it.

_Mr. C._ Glory! [_Kisses her._]

_Mrs. C._ But, James, ye haven’t told me yet how ye liked yer tay?

_Mr. C._ Ah, Nora, me jewel, the taste of that first kiss would take away the taste of all the tay that ever was brewed.

MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS

COMPRISING

Dramatic, Humorous and Tragic Pieces from the most Celebrated Authors, adapted to the use of Public Schools, Academies and Higher Institutions of Learning, for Public and Social Entertainments.

Wit and Wisdom Represented by a Great Variety of Entertaining Characters.

UNCLE PETE.

_Characters._

GEORGE PEYTON, _a planter_.

UNCLE PETE, _a venerable darkey, looking the worse for wear, with
more patches than pantaloons_.

SCENE—_Exterior view of a planter’s cabin, with practicable door.
GEORGE PEYTON discovered, seated on a bench, under veranda,
reading a newspaper._

_Enter UNCLE PETE, a limp noticeable in his left leg, the knee of
which is bowed outward, hoe on his shoulder._

_Uncle Pete._ (_Pausing as he enters, shading his eyes with his hand, going towards GEORGE PEYTON._) Yes, dar he is; dar is Marse George, a sittin’ on the porch, a readin’ his papah. Golly, I cotch him at home! (_Advancing and calling_) Marse George, Marse George, I’s come to see you once mo’, once mo,’ befo’ I leabes you fo’ebber. Marse George, I’se gwine to de odder shoah; I’se far on de way to my long home, to dat home ober acrost de ribber, whar de wicked hab’ no mo’ trouble, and where water-millions ripen all the year! Youns has all bin berry kine to me heah, Marse George, berry kine to de ole man, but I’s gwine away, acrost de dark ribber. I’s gwine ober, an’ dar, on dat odder shoah, I’ll stan’ an’ pick on de golden hawp among de angels, an’ in de company of de blest. Dar I’ll fine my rest; dar I’ll stan’ befo’ de throne fo’ ebber mo’ a singin’ an’ a shoutin’ susannis to de Lord!

_George Peyton._ Oh, no, Uncle Pete, you’re all right yet—you’re good for another twenty years.

_Uncle P._ Berry kine o’ you to say dat, Marse George—berry kine—but it’s no use. It almos’ breaks my hawt to leab you, and to leab de missus and de chillun, Marse George, but I’s got my call—I’s all gone inside.

_George P._ Don’t talk so, Uncle Pete; you are still quite a hale old man.

_Uncle P._ No use talkin’, Marse George, I’s gwine to hebben berry soon. ’Pears like I can heah the singin’ on de odder shoah. ’Pears like I can heah de voice of ol’ “Aunt Liza” an’ de odders dat’s gone befoah. You’s bin berry kine, Marse George—de missus an’ de chillun’s bin berry good—seems like all de people’s been berry good to poor ole Pete—poor cretur like me.

_George P._ Nonsense, Uncle Pete (_kindly and encouragingly_), nonsense, you are good for many years yet. You’ll see the sod placed on the graves of many younger men than you are, before they dig the hole for you. What you want just now, Uncle Pete, is a good square meal. Go into the kitchen and help yourself—fill up inside. There is no one at home, but I think you know the road. Plenty of cold victuals of all kinds in there.

_Uncle P._ (_A smile illuminating his face._) ’Bleedged t’ye, Marse George, ’bleeged t’ye, sah, I’ll go! For de little time I has got to stay, I’ll not go agin natur’; but it’s no use. I’s all gone inside—I’s got my call. I’m one o’ dem dat’s on de way to de golden shoah.

(_Exit UNCLE PETE through door, his limp hardly noticeable. His manner showing his delight._)

_George P._ Poor old Uncle Pete, he seems to be the victim of religious enthusiasm. I suppose he has been to camp-meeting, but he is a cunning old fox, and it must have taken a regular hard-shell sermon to convert the old sinner. He was raised on this plantation, and I have often heard my father say, he hadn’t a better negro on the place. Ever since the war, he has been working a little, and loafing a good deal, and I have no doubt he sometimes sighs to be a slave again at work on the old plantation. (_Starts and listens._)

_Uncle P._ (_Singing inside_:)

Jay bird, jay bird, sittin’ on a limb,
He winked at me, an’ I at him;
Cocked my gun, an’ split his shin,
An’ left the arrow a-stickin’.

_George P._ (_Starting up._) Zounds! if that old thief hasn’t found my bitters bottle! Pete! Pete, you rascal!

_Uncle P._ (_Continues singing_:)

Snake bake a hoe cake,
An’ set the frog to mind it;
But the frog fell asleep,
An’ the lizard come an’ find it.

_George P._ Pete! you rascal, come out of that.

_Uncle P._ (_Who does not hear the planter, continues singing, and dances a gentle, old-fashioned shuffle._)

De debbil cotch the groun’ hog
A-sittin’ in de sun,
An’ kick him off de back-log,
Jes’ to see de fun.

_George P._ (_Furious._) Pete; you infernal nigger, come out of that, I say.

_Uncle P._ (_Still singing and dancing._)

De ’possum up de gum tree,
A-playin’ wid his toes,
An’ up comes de ginny pig,
Den off he goes.

_George P._ (_Thoroughly aroused, throwing down his paper._) You, Pete; blast the nigger.

_Uncle P._ (_Continues singing_:)

De weasel went to see de polecat’s wife,
You nebber smelt such a row in all yer—

_George P._ (_Rushes in the cabin, interrupts the singing, and drags PETE out by the ear._) Pete! Pete, you infernal old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river? Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore? Is this the way for a man to act when he has got his call—when he is all gone inside?

_Uncle P._ (_Looking as if he had been caught in a hen-roost._) Marse George. I’s got de call, sah, an’ I’s gwine acrost de dark ribber soon, but I’s now braced up a little on de inside, an’ de ’scursion am postponed—you see, de ’scursion am postponed, sah!

_George P._ (_Folding his arms, looking at Pete, as if in admiration of his impudence._) The excursion is postponed, is it? Well, _this_ excursion is not postponed, you old scoundrel. (_Seizes PETE by the coat-collar and runs him off stage, L._) [CURTAIN.]

PAT’S EXCUSE.

CHARACTERS:

NORA, _a young Irish lass_.
PAT MURPHY, _a gay deceiver_.

_Curtain rises._—_Discovers NORA in kitchen, peeling potatoes._

_Nora._ Och! it’s deceivin’ that all men are! Now I belaved Pat niver would forsake me, and here he’s trated me like an ould glove, and I’ll niver forgive him. How praties make your eyes water. (_Wipes tears away._) Almost as bad as onions. Not that I’m cryin’; oh, no. Pat Murphy can’t see _me_ cry. (_Knock without._) There is Pat now, the rascal. I’ll lock the door. (_Hastens to lock door._)

_Pat_ (_without_). Arrah, Nora, and here I am.

_Nora._ And there ye’ll stay, ye spalpeen.

_Pat_ (_without_). Ah, come now, Nora,—ain’t it opening the door you are after? Sure, I’m dyin’ of cold.

_Nora._ Faith, you are too hard a sinner to die aisy—so you can take your time about it.

_Pat._ Open the door, cushla; the police will be takin’ me up.

_Nora._ He won’t kape you long, alanna!

_Pat._ Nora, if you let me in, I’ll tell you how I came to lave you at the fair last night.

_Nora_ (_relenting_). Will you, for true?

_Pat._ Indade I will.

(_Nora unlocks door. Enter PAT gayly. He snatches a kiss from her._)

_Nora._ Be off wid ye! Now tell me how you happened to be wid Mary O’Dwight last night?

_Pat (sitting down)._ Well, you see it happened this way; ye know Mike O’ Dwight is her brother, and he and me is blatherin’ good friends, ye know; and as we was going to Caltry the ither day, Mike says to me, says he: “Pat, what’ll you take fur that dog?” and I says, says I—

_Nora (who has been listening earnestly)._ Bother you, Pat, but you are foolin’ me again.

_Pat (coaxingly takes her hand)._ No—no—Nora—I’ll tell ye the truth this time, sure. Well, as I was sayin’, Mike and me is good friends; and Mike says, says he: “Pat, that’s a good dog.” “Yis,” says I, “it is.” And he says, says he. “Pat, it is a blatherin’ good dog.” “Yis,” says I; and then—and then—(_Scratches his head as if to aid his imagination._)

_Nora_ (_angrily snatching away hand_). There! I’ll not listen to another word!

_She Sings._

(Tune—Rory O’Moore.)

Oh, Patrick Murphy, be off wid you, pray,
I been watching your pranks this many a day;
You’re false, and ye’re fickle, as sure as I live
And your hateful desaivin’ I’ll niver forgive.
Ouch! do you think I was blind yester night,
When you walked so fine with Mary O’Dwight?
You kissed her, you rascal, and called her your own,
And left me to walk down the dark lane alone.

_Pat_ (_taking up song_).

Oh, Nora, me darlint, be off wid your airs,
For nobody wants you, and nobody cares!
For you do want your Patrick, for don’t you see,
You could not so well love any but me.
When my lips met[1] Miss Mary’s, now just look at me,
I shut my eyes tight just this way, don’t you see?
And when the kiss came, what did I do?—
I shut my eyes tight, and made believe it was _you_!

_Nora._

Be off wid your nonsense—a word in your ear,
Listen, my Patrick, be sure that you hear;
Last night when Mike Duffy came here to woo,
We sat in the dark, and made believe it was you—
And when the kiss came, now just look at me,—
I shut my eyes tight, just this way, don’t you see?
And when our lips met, what did I do,
But keep my eyes shut, and make belave it was you!

(_Nora, laughing; Pat, disconcerted._)

[QUICK CURTAIN.]

[1] From the asterisk they sing only the first strain of “Rory O’More”—omitting the minor strain, with which Nora finishes her first stanza.

THE DUEL.

_Enter SIR LUCIUS O’TRIGGER to left, with pistols, followed by ACRES._

_Acres._ (_L._[2]) By my valor, then, Sir Lucius, forty yards is a good distance. Odds levels and aims!—I say it is a good distance.

_Sir Lucius._ (_R._) Is it for muskets or small field-pieces? Upon my conscience Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to me.—Stay, now—I’ll show you. (_Measures paces along the floor._) There, now, that is a very pretty distance—a pretty gentleman’s distance.

_Acr._ (_R._) Zounds! we might as well fight in a sentry-box! I tell you, Sir Lucius, the further he is off, the cooler I shall take my aim.

_Sir L._ (_L._) Faith! then I suppose you would aim at him best of all if he was out of sight!

Acr. No, Sir Lucius; but I should think forty or eight-and-thirty yards—

_Sir L._ Pooh! pooh! nonsense! Three or four feet between the mouths of your pistols is as good as a mile.

_Acr._ Odds bullets, no!—by my valor! here is no merit in killing him so near! Do, my dear Sir Lucius, let me bring him down at a long shot:—a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me!

_Sir L._ Well, the gentlemen’s friend and I must settle that. But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident, is there any little will or commission I could execute for you?

_Acr._ I am much obliged to you, Sir Lucius—but I don’t understand—

_Sir L._ Why, you may think there’s no being shot at without a little risk; and if an unlucky bullet should carry a quietus with it—I say it will be no time then to be bothering you about family matters.

_Acr._ A quietus!

_Sir L._ For instance, now—if that should be the case—would you choose to be pickled and sent home?—or would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey?—I’m told there is very snug lying in the Abbey.

_Acr._ Pickled!—Snugly in the Abbey!—Odds tremors! Sir Lucius, don’t talk so!

_Sir L._ I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were engaged in an affair of this kind before.

_Acr._ No, Sir Lucius, never before.

_Sir L._ Ah! that’s a pity!—there’s nothing like being used to a thing. Pray, now, how would you receive the gentlemen’s shot?

_Acr._ Odds files!—I’ve practiced that—there, Sir Lucius—there. (_Puts himself in an attitude._) A side front, hey? I’ll make myself small enough: I’ll stand edgeways.

_Sir L._ Now—you’re quite out—for if you stand so when I take my aim—(_Leveling at him._)

_Acr._ Zounds! Sir Lucius—are you sure it is not cocked?

_Sir L._ Never fear.

_Acr._ But—but—you don’t know—it may go off of its own head!

_Sir L._ Pooh! be easy. Well, now, if I hit you in the body, my bullet has a double chance; for, if it misses a vital part of your right side, ’twill be very hard if it don’t succeed on the left.

_Acr._ A vital part!

_Sir L._ But, there, fix yourself so—(_placing him_)—let him see the broadside of your full front, there, now, a ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never do any harm at all.

_Acr._ Clean through me!—a ball or two clean through me!

_Sir L._ Ay, may they; and it is much the genteelest attitude into the bargain.

_Acr._ Look’ee, Sir Lucius! I’d just as lieve be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one; so, by my valor! I will stand edgeways.

_Sir L._ (_Looking at his watch._) Sure, they don’t mean to disappoint us. Ha! no, faith; I think I see them coming. (_Crosses to R._)

_Acr._ (_L._) Hey!—what!—coming!—

_Sir L._ Ay. Who are those yonder, getting over the stile?

_Acr._ There are two of them, indeed! Well—let them come—hey, Sir Lucius! we—we—we—we—won’t run!

_Sir L._ Run!

_Acr._ No,—I say,—we won’t run, by my valor!

_Sir L._ What’s the matter with you?

_Acr._ Nothing—nothing—my dear friend—my dear Sir Lucius! but I—I don’t feel quite so bold, somehow, as I did.

_Sir L._ O, fy! Consider your honor.

_Acr._ Ay—true—my honor. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a word or two every now and then about my honor.

_Sir L._ Well, here they’re coming. (_Looking R._)

_Acr._ Sir Lucius, if I wa’n’t with you, I should almost think I was afraid! If my valor should leave me!—Valor will come and go.

_Sir L._ Then pray keep it fast while you have it.

_Acr._ Sir Lucius, I doubt it is going!—yes—my valor is certainly going!—it is sneaking off! I feel it oozing out, as it were, at the palms of my hands!

_Sir L._ Your honor! your honor! Here they are.

_Acr._ O mercy!—now—that I was safe at Clod Hall! or could be shot before I was aware! (_SIR LUCIUS takes Acres by the arm, and leads him reluctantly off, R._)

SHERIDAN.

[2] _L._ signifies _left_; _R._, _right_, and _C._, _centre_ of stage.

READING THE WILL.

CHARACTERS:

_SWIPES, a brewer. CURRIE, a saddler. FRANK MILLINGTON, and
’SQUIRE DRAWL._

_Enter SWIPES, R.,[3] CURRIE, L._

_Swipes._ A sober occasion this, brother Currie! Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end?

_Currie._ Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes. Those who live longest outlive the most.

_Swipes._ True, true; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed?

_Cur._ Perfectly, perfectly. ’Squire Drawl told me she read every word of her last will and testament aloud, and never signed her name better.

_Swipes._ Had you any hint from the ’Squire what disposition she made of her property?

_Cur._ Not a whisper! the ’Squire is as close as a miser’s purse. But one of the witnesses hinted to me that she has cut off her graceless nephew with a shilling.

_Swipes._ Has she? Good soul! Has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife.

_Cur._ And I in my _own_ right; and this is, no doubt, the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. ’Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your own beer-barrels, brother Swipes. But here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. (_Enter FRANK MILLINGTON, R._) Your servant, young gentleman. So, your benefactress has left you, at last!

_Swipes._ It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington.

_Frank._ It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better, had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value.

_Cur._ It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.

_Swipes._ Ay, ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer’s boy, if you were not too old.

_Cur._ Ay, or a saddler’s lackey, if held with a tight rein.

_Frank._ Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly, as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. (_As he is going, R., enter ’SQUIRE DRAWL, R._)

_’Squire._ Stop, stop, young man! We must have your presence. Good-morning, gentlemen: you are early on the ground.

_Cur._ I hope the ’Squire is well to-day.

_’Squire._ Pretty comfortable for an invalid.

_Swipes._ I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs.

_’Squire._ No, I believe not. You know I never hurry. _Slow and sure_ is my maxim. Well, since the heirs-at-law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.

_Swipes._ (_While the ’SQUIRE is breaking the seal._) It is a trying scene to leave all one’s possessions, ’Squire, in this manner!

_Cur._ It really makes me feel melancholy when I look round and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the preacher say, All is vanity!

_’Squire._ Please to be seated, gentlemen.

(_All sit.—The ’SQUIRE puts on his spectacles, and reads slowly._) “Imprimis: Whereas my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler.” (_’SQUIRE takes off his spectacles to wipe them._)

_Swipes._ (_Dreadfully overcome._) Generous creature! kind soul! I always loved her.

_Cur._ She _was_ good, she _was_ kind! She was in her right mind. Brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I will take the mansion-house.

_Swipes._ Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie! My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it. (_Both rise._)

_Cur._ There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes! And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did not I lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence——.

_Swipes._ Am I not named first in her will? And did I not furnish her with my best small beer for more than six months? And who knows——.

_Frank._ Gentlemen, I must leave you. (_Going._)

_’Squire._ (_Wiping his spectacles, and putting them on._) Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. (_All sit._) Let me see; where was I?—Ay,—“All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt street, brewer——”

_Swipes._ Yes!

_’Squire._ “And Christopher Currie, Fly Court, saddler——”

_Cur._ Yes!

_’Squire._ “To have and to hold in trust, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years; by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him.”

_Swipes._ What’s all this? You don’t mean that we are humbugged? _In trust!_—how does that appear? Where is it?

_’Squire._ (_Pointing to the parchment._) There! In two words of as good old English as I ever penned.

_Cur._ Pretty well, too, Mr. ’Squire, if we must be sent for to be made a laughing-stock of! She shall pay for every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you!

_Swipes._ And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here to be made the sport of a graceless profligate! But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie! We will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with!

_Cur._ That will we!

_’Squire._ Not so fast, gentlemen; for the instrument is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must already be of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis?

_Frank._ It is, your worship.

_’Squire._ Then, gentlemen, having attended to the breaking of this seal according to law, you are released from any further trouble in the premises.

(_Exit SWIPES and CURRIE in earnest conversation._)

SARGENT.

[3] _R._, signifies _right_; _L._, _left_ and _C._, _centre_ of stage.

THE DEBTOR AND THE DUN.

_Enter REMNANT, R._[4]

_Remnant._ Well, I am resolved I’ll collect my bill of Col. Blarney this time. He shan’t put me off again. This is the twentieth time, as I’m a sinner, that I have dunned him! His smooth words shan’t humbug me now. No, no! Richard Remnant is not such a goose as to be paid in fine words for fine clothes. (_Takes out a long bill and unrolls it._) A pretty collection of items, that! Why, the interest alone would make a good round sum. But hark! He is coming. (_Hastily rolls up the bill and returns it to his pocket._)

_Enter COL. BLARNEY, R._

_Blarney._ Ah! my dear Remnant, a thousand welcomes! How delighted I am to see you! And what stupidity on the part of my people not to make you enter at once! True, I had given orders that they should admit nobody; but those orders did not extend to you, my dear sir, for to you I am always at home.

_Rem._ Much obliged, sir. (_Fumbling in his pocket for his bill._)

_Blar._ (_calling to his servants_.) What, ho! John! Martha! confound you! I will teach you to keep my friend Remnant kicking his heels in the entry! I will teach you to distinguish among my visitors!

_Rem._ Indeed, sir, it is no sort of consequence.

_Blar._ But it _is_ consequence! To tell you—you, one of my best friends—that I was not in!

_Rem._ I am your humble servant, sir. (_Drawing forth bill._) I just dropped in to hand you this little—

_Blar._ Quick, there, quick! A chair for my friend Remnant!

_Rem._ I am very well as I am, sir.

_Blar._ Not at all! I would have you seated.

_Rem._ It is not necessary. (_Servant hands a common chair._)

_Blar._ Rascal!—not that! An arm-chair!

_Rem._ You are taking too much trouble. (_An arm-chair is placed for him._)

_Blar._ No, no; you have been walking some distance, and require rest. Now be seated.

_Rem._ There is no need of it—I have but a single word to say. I have brought—

_Blar._ Be seated, I say. I will not listen to you till you are seated.

_Rem._ Well, sir, I will do as you wish. (_Sits._) I was about to say—

_Blar._ Upon my word, friend Remnant, you are looking remarkably well.

_Rem._ Yes, sir, thank heaven, I am pretty well. I have come with this—

_Blar._ You have an admirable stock of health—lips fresh, skin ruddy, eyes clear and bright—really—

_Rem._ If you would be good enough to—

_Blar._ And how is Madam Remnant?

_Rem._ Quite well, sir, I am happy to say.

_Blar._ A charming woman, Mr. Remnant! A very superior woman.

_Rem._ She will be much obliged, sir. As I was saying—

_Blar._ And your daughter, Claudine, how is she?

_Rem._ As well as can be.

_Blar._ The beautiful little thing that she is! I am quite in love with her.

_Rem._ You do us too much honor, sir. I—you—

_Blar._ And little Harry—does he make as much noise as ever, beating that drum of his?

_Rem._ Ah, yes! He goes on the same as ever. But, as I was saying—

_Blar._ And your little dog, Brisk,—does he bark as loud as ever, and snap at the legs of your visitors?

_Rem._ More than ever, sir, and we don’t know how to cure him. He, he! But I dropped in to—

_Blar._ Do not be surprised if I want particular news of all your family, for I take the deepest interest in all of you.

_Rem._ We are much obliged to your honor, much obliged. I—

_Blar._ (_Giving his hand._) Your hand upon it, Mr. Remnant. Don’t rise. Now, tell me, do you stand well with the people of quality?—for I can make interest for you among them.

_Rem._ Sir, I am your humble servant.

_Blar._ And I am yours, with all my heart. (_Shaking hands again._)

_Rem._ You do me too much honor.

_Blar._ There is nothing I would not do for you.

_Rem._ Sir, you are too kind to me.

_Blar._ At least I am disinterested; be sure of that, Mr. Remnant.

_Rem._ Certainly I have not merited these favors, sir. But, sir,—

_Blar._ Now I think of it, will you stay and sup with me?—without ceremony, of course.

_Rem._ No, sir, I must return to my shop; I should have been there before this. I—

_Blar._ What ho, there! A light for Mr. Remnant! and tell the coachman to bring the coach and drive him home.

_Rem._ Indeed, sir, it is not necessary. I can walk well enough. But here— (_Offering bill._)

_Blar._ O! I shall not listen to it. Walk? Such a night as this! I am your friend, Remnant, and, what is more, your debtor—your debtor, I say—all the world may know it.

_Rem._ Ah! sir if you could but find it convenient—

_Blar._ Hark! There is the coach. One more embrace, my dear Remnant! (_Shakes hands again._) Take care of the steps. Command me always; and be sure there is nothing in the world I would not do for you. There! Good-by.

(_Exit REMNANT, conducted by COL. B._)

ALTERED FROM MOLIÈRE.

[4] The initials _R._ and _L._ stand for the _Right_ and _Left_ of the stage, facing the audience.

THE DISAGREEABLE MEDDLER.

_Enter DOUBLEDOT and SIMON, L._[5]

_Doubledot._ Plague take Mr. Paul Pry! He is one of those idle, meddling fellows, who, having no employment themselves, are perpetually interfering in other people’s affairs.

_Simon._ Ay, and he’s inquisitive into all matters, great and small.

_Doub._ Inquisitive! Why, he makes no scruple of questioning you respecting your most private concerns. Then he will weary you to death with a long story about a cramp in his leg, or the loss of a sleeve-button, or some such idle matter. And so he passes his days, “dropping in,” as he calls it, from house to house at the most unreasonable times, to the annoyance of every family in the village. But I’ll soon get rid of him.

_Enter PRY, L., with umbrella, which he places against the wall._

_Pry._ Ha! how d’ye do, Mr. Doubledot?

_Doub._ Very busy, Mr. Pry, and have scarcely time to say, “Pretty well, thank ye.” (_Turns from him as if writing in memorandum book. SIMON advances._)

_Pry._ Ha, Simon! you here? Rather early in the morning to be in a public house. Been taking a horn, eh? Sent here with a message from your master, perhaps? I say, Simon, when this wedding takes place, I suppose your master will put you all into new liveries, eh?

_Simon._ Can’t say, sir.

_Pry._ Well, I think he might. (_Touches SIMON’S sleeve._) Between ourselves, Simon, it won’t be before you want ’em, eh?

_Simon._ That’s master’s business, sir, and neither yours nor mine.

_Pry._ Mr. Simon, behave yourself, or I shall complain of you to the colonel. By the way, Simon, that’s an uncommon fine leg of mutton the butcher has sent to your house. It weighs thirteen pounds five ounces.

_Doub._ And how do you know that?

_Pry._ I asked the butcher. I say, Simon, is it for roasting or boiling?

_Simon._ Half and half, with the chill taken off. There’s your answer. (_Exit SIMON, R._)

_Pry._ That’s an uncommon ill-behaved servant! Well, since you say you are busy, I won’t interrupt you; only, as I was passing, I thought I might as well drop in.

_Doub._ Then you may now drop out again. The railway ’bus will be in presently, and—

_Pry._ No passengers by it to-day, for I have been to the hill to look for it.

_Doub._ Did you expect any one by it, that you were so anxious?

_Pry._ No; but I make it my business to see the coach come in every day. I can’t bear to be idle.

_Doub._ Useful occupation, truly!

_Pry._ Always see it go out; have done so these ten years.

_Doub._ (_Going up._) Tiresome blockhead! Well; good morning to you.

_Pry._ Good-morning, Mr. Doubledot. Your tavern doesn’t appear to be very full just now.

_Doub._ No, no.

_Pry._ Ha! you are at a heavy rent? (_Pauses for an answer after each question._) I’ve often thought of that. No supporting such an establishment without a deal of custom. If it’s not an impertinent question, don’t you find it rather a hard matter to make both ends meet when the first of the month comes round?

_Doub._ If it isn’t asking an impertinent question, what’s that to you?

_Pry._ O, nothing; only some folks have the luck of it: they have just taken in a nobleman’s family at the opposition house, the Green Dragon.

_Doub._ What’s that? A nobleman at the Green Dragon!

_Pry._ Traveling carriage and four. Three servants on the dickey and an outrider, all in blue liveries. They dine and stop all night. A pretty bill there will be to-morrow, for the servants are not on board wages.

_Doub._ Plague take the Green Dragon! How did you discover that they are not on board wages?

_Pry._ I was curious to know, and asked one of them. You know I never miss any thing for want of asking. ’Tis no fault of mine that the nabob is not here, at your house.

_Doub._ Why, what had you to do with it?

_Pry._ You know I never forget my friends. I stopped the carriage as it was coming down the hill—brought it to a dead stop, and said that if his lordship—I took him for a lord at once—that if his lordship intended to make any stay, he couldn’t do better than to go to Doubledot’s.

_Doub._ Well?

_Pry._ Well,—would you believe it?—out pops a saffron-colored face from the carriage window, and says, “You’re an impudent rascal for stopping my carriage, and I’ll not go to Doubledot’s if there’s another inn to be found within ten miles of it!”

_Doub._ There, that comes of your confounded meddling! If you had not interfered I should have stood an equal chance with the Green Dragon.

_Pry._ I’m very sorry; but I did it for the best.

_Doub._ Did it for the best, indeed! Deuce take you! By your officious attempts to serve, you do more mischief in the neighborhood than the exciseman, the apothecary, and the attorney, all together.

_Pry._ Well, there’s gratitude! Now, really, I must go. Good-morning. (_Exit PAUL PRY._)

_Doub._ I’m rid of him at last, thank fortune! (_PRY re-enters._) Well, what now?

_Pry._ I’ve dropped one of my gloves. Now, that’s very odd—here it is in my hand all the time!

_Doub._ Go to confusion! (_Exit._)

_Pry._ Come, that’s civil! If I were the least of a bore, now, it would be pardonable—But—Hullo! There’s the postman! I wonder whether the Parkins’s have got letters again to-day. They have had letters every day this week, and I can’t for the life of me think what they can—(_Feels hastily in his pockets._) By the way, talking of letters, here’s one I took from the postman last week for the colonel’s daughter, Miss Eliza, and I have always forgotten to give it to her. I dare say it is not of much importance. (_Peeps into it—reads._) “Likely—unexpected—affectionate.” I can’t make it out. No matter; I’ll contrive to take it to the house—though I’ve a deal to do to-day. (_Runs off and returns._) Dear me! I had like to have gone without my umbrella.

[CURTAIN.]

JOHN POOLE.

[5] _L._ signifies _left_; _R._, _right_, and _C._, _centre_ of stage.

SPARTACUS AND JOVIUS.

_Enter SPARTACUS, L.,[6] JOVIUS, R._

_Spartacus._ Speak, Roman! wherefore does thy master send
Thy gray hairs to the “cut throat’s” camp?

_Jovius._ Brave rebel—

_Spart._ Why, that’s a better name than rogue or bondman;
But in this camp I am called _General_.

_Jov._ Brave General,—for, though a rogue and bondman,
As you have said, I’ll still allow you General,
As he that beats a consul surely is.

_Spart._ Say two—two consuls; and to that e’en add
A proconsul, three prætors, and some generals.

_Jov._ Why, this is no more than true. Are you a Thracian?

_Spart._ Ay.

_Jov._ There is something in the air of Thrace
Breeds valor up as rank as grass. ’Tis pity.
You are a barbarian.

_Spart._ Wherefore?

_Jov._ Had you been born
A Roman, you had won by this a triumph.

_Spart._ I thank the gods I am barbarian;
For I can better teach the grace-begot
And heaven-supported masters of the earth
How a mere dweller of a desert rock
Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels,
Their regal necks to be his stepping-blocks.
But come, what is thy message?

_Jov._ Julia, niece
Of the prætor, is thy captive.

_Spart._ Ay.

_Jov._ For whom
Is offered in exchange thy wife, Senona,
And thy young boy.

_Spart._ Tell thou the prætor, Roman,
The Thracian’s wife is ransomed.

_Jov._ How is that?

_Spart._ Ransomed, and by the steel, from out the camp
Of slaughtered Gellius! (_Pointing off._) Behold them, Roman!

_Jov._ (_Looking as SPART. points._) This is sorcery!
But name a ransom for the general’s niece.

_Spart._ Have I not now the prætor on the hip?
He would, in his extremity, have made
My wife his buckler of defence; perhaps
Have doomed her to the scourge! But this is Roman.
Now the barbarian is instructed. Look!
I hold the prætor by the heart; and he
Shall feel how tightly grip barbarian fingers.

_Jov._ Men do not war on women. Name her ransom.

_Spart._ Men do not war on women! Look you:
One day I climbed up to the ridgy top
Of the cloud-piercing Hæmus, where, among
The eagles and the thunders, from that height,
I looked upon the world, as far as where,
Wrestling with storms, the gloomy Euxine chafed
On his recoiling shores; and where dim Adria
In her blue bosom quenched the fiery sphere.
Between those surges lay a land, might once
Have matched Elysium; but Rome had made it
A Tartarus. In my green youth I looked
From the same frosty peak where now I stood,
And then beheld the _glory_ of those lands,
Where Peace was tinkling on the shepherd’s bell
And singing with the reapers.
Since that glad day, Rome’s conquerors had passed
With withering armies there, and all was changed.
Peace had departed; howling War was there,
Cheered on by Roman hunters. Then, methought
E’en as I looked upon the altered scene,
Groans echoed through the valleys, through which ran
Rivers of blood, like smoking Phlegethons;
Fires flashed from burning villages, and Famine
Shrieked in the empty cornfields! Women and children,
Robbed of their sires and husbands, left to starve—
These were the dwellers of the land! Say’st thou
Rome wars not, then, on women?

_Jov._ This is not to the matter.

_Spart._ Now, by Jove,
It is! These things do Romans. But the earth
Is sick of conquerors. There is not a man,
Not Roman, but is Rome’s extremest foe:
And such am I; sworn from that hour I saw
Those sights of horror, while the gods support me,
To wreak on Rome such havoc as Rome wreaks,
Carnage and devastation, woe and ruin.
Why should I ransom, when I swear to slay?
Begone! This is my answer!

BIRD.

[6] _L._ signifies _left_; _R._, _right_, and _C._, _centre_ of stage

THE RESOLVE OF REGULUS.—_Sargent._

(Regulus, a Roman consul, having been defeated in battle and
taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, was detained in captivity
five years, and then sent on an embassy to Rome to solicit peace,
under a promise that he would return to Carthage if the proposals
were rejected. These, it was thought, he would urge in order
to obtain his own liberty; but he urged contrary and patriotic
measures on his countrymen; and then, having carried his point,
resisted the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome, and
returned to Carthage, where a martyr’s death awaited him. Some
writers say that he was thrust into a cask covered over on the
inside with iron spikes, and thus rolled down hill. The following
scene presents Regulus just as he has made known to his friends
in Rome his resolution to return to Carthage.)

_Enter REGULUS, followed by SERTORIUS._

_Sertorius._ Stay, Roman, in pity!—if not for thy life,
For the sake of thy country, thy children, thy wife.
Sent, not to urge war, but to lead Rome to peace,
Thy captors of Carthage vouchsafed thee release.
Thou return’st to encounter their anger, their rage;—
No mercy expect for thy fame or thy age!

_Regulus._ To my captors one pledge, and one only, I gave:
To RETURN, though it were to walk into my grave!
No hope I extended, no promise I made,
Rome’s Senate and people from war to dissuade.
If the vengeance of Carthage be stored for me now,
I have reaped no dishonor, have broken no vow.

_Sert._ They released thee, but dreamed not that thou wouldst fulfil
A part that would leave thee a prisoner still;
They hoped thy own danger would lead thee to sway
The councils of Rome a far different way;
Would induce thee to urge the conditions they crave,
If only thy freedom, thy life-blood, to save.
Thought shudders, the torment and woe to depict
Thy merciless foes have the heart to inflict!
Remain with us, Regulus! do not go back!
No hope sheds its ray on thy death-pointing track!
Keep faith with the faithless? The gods will forgive
The balking of such. O, live, Regulus, live!

_Reg._ With the consciousness fixed in the core of my heart,
That I had been playing the perjurer’s part?
With the stain ever glaring, the thought ever nigh,
That I owe the base breath I inhale to a lie?
O, never! Let Carthage infract every oath,
Be false to her word and humanity both,
Yet never will I in her infamy share,
Or turn for a refuge to guilt from despair!