University of Virginia Library

II. Scene—The Governor's Study.

SQUIRE LONG AND LONG JUNIOR.
SQUIRE LONG.
George, why don't you marry?—at your time of life
'Tis a man's bounden duty to look for a wife.

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir; but what can I do?
The ladies I fix upon never please you!

SQUIRE LONG.
No, George, but your father your interest watches.
I've pointed out three or four excellent matches.

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir; but then, do you see,
The ladies you fix upon never please me.

SQUIRE LONG.
Why zounds! George, you don't go the right way to work,
Make up to the Fox-hunting Heiress from York.

LONG, JUNr.
The steeple chase lady!—If after that spec
There's less danger of breaking my heart than my neck;
A brilliant her eye, but a ruby her nose is,
Horse laughter her smile, and her bloom cabbage roses!

SQUIRE LONG.
Oh! George, you provoke me; but say, have you seen
The rich and rare private theatrical Queen?
Who gets up the plays down at Splashington Hall,
First Manager—Dramatist—Actress—and all!

LONG, JUNr.
No! not the Blue Lady who rules the Green-room,
Artificial in attitude, simper, and bloom;
Who looks up so loving in Romeo's face,
Returning with gusto each sigh and embrace.
To make a proscenium she'd split my saloon,
And darken it all for rehearsals at noon.
'Twould ruffle me, Sir—why, 'twould ruffle a saint
To live amid canvass, gilt paper and paint.

SQUIRE LONG.
What think you then, George, of the Baronet's widow,
The lady of arable, pasture, and meadow?

LONG, JUNr.
Sir Acre's relict? No, no, my good Sir,
For ruin lurks under rich widows like her.
The crops that she cuts, and the beasts that she kills
Are all melted down in her milliner's bills!
Don't talk of her produce—its merit must stop,
If I cannot prevent her from wearing a crop!
Her hey-day is endless; she'll add to my trouble,
And into straw bonnets she'd turn all my stubble!

SQUIRE LONG.
Miss Blonda, the beauty—what think you of her
The beauty, par excellence—can you demur?

LONG, JUNr.
The belle of the public? Ah! no, Sir, I seek
For one with the first bloom of youth on her cheek;
The belle of my own individual choice,
Not hawk'd about yearly by Fashion's shrill voice:
Exhibited here, and exhibited there,
Until, so long used to vulgarity's stare,
So petted by connoisseur, sculptor and painter,
My home-admiration could never content her!
If I praised her, she'd say, “Oh! I've heard that before;
Indeed, my Lord So and So used to say more!”

SQUIRE LONG.
Well, George, you shan't marry a beauty; you shan't;
There's plain Miss Golightly, who wants a gallant.
Besides, she writes novels—

LONG, JUNr.
Ay, when I'm in haste
To make love to a gorgon, she'll be to my taste.
But worse—oh! a thousand times worse than her looks,
Is the thought of her putting me into her books!
When wanting a chapter, how pleasant to catch
Some foible of mine, just to fill up a sketch!
How very convenient, when other themes flag
To have me, just like a wild fox in a bag,
And then hunt me out, giving all but my name,
While those who peruse the three volumes exclaim:
“Oh! dear me, how like him; how very absurd!
That's meant for her husband, I give you my word!
How wrong of her, though—the resemblance must strike!
How very improper! Good gracious, how like!”

SQUIRE LONG.
Well, George, there's Miss Wilkins; the lady they laud
For graces acquired whilst living abroad.
Her singing; her playing!

LONG, JUNr.
Why no, I confess
She's too foreign in manner—too foreign in dress;
In all that she utters and does, I detect
A something that tells me she aims at effect,
And copying Frenchified airs; after all
She wears the French fashions that suit a French doll;
Her singing is squall, and her laughter is giggle!
Her figure all bustle, her dancing all wriggle!

SQUIRE LONG.
But, zounds, you must marry! At your time of life
'Tis a man's bounden duty to look for a wife.

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir—but what can I do?
The ladies I fix upon never please you.

SQUIRE LONG.
No, George; but your father your interest watches:
I've pointed out several excellent matches!

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir, but then do you see,
The ladies you fix upon never please me!