University of Virginia Library

III. Scene—Mrs. Long's Boudoir.

MRS. AND MISS LONG.
MRS. LONG.
My darling daughter, come to me;
Why is your cheek so pale?
To fond maternal ears reveal
Your first-love's faltering tale.
You love young Lord Fitzlackstiver—
(Incomparable youth!
What fascinating eyes he has!)—
You love him?—speak the truth.

MISS LONG.
No—no—I do not love him—no—
That word is far too tame;
A faintness comes all over me
When others breathe his name.
I doat upon him! oh, Mamma,
Don't tell me I am wrong;
You know he comes here every day,
And stays here all day long.

MRS. LONG.
He does, my pet, I know he does,
(Most excellent young man!)
But, dearest, long ere you came out
His daily calls began.

MISS LONG.
What mean you, Madam!

MRS. LONG.
Miss, I mean
His Lordship is my friend—
My Cicisbeo—my— in short,
Your fancies, child, must end.

MISS LONG.
Madam! Mamma! what can you mean?
He's not in love with you?
I'll go and speak to my Papa—

MRS. LONG.
Do—if you dare, love, do!
Your father's age, and gout, and bile,
And half a hundred ills
Keep him at home; I cannot stay
To make him take his pills.
And then in public, you must know,
A man is indispensable.
(Now listen, child, and dry your eyes—
I always thought you sensible!)
As for a ball—your father's far
More fit for hearse and hatchment;
And who can blame Platonic love
And innocent attachment?

MISS LONG.
My heart will break! oh, 'tis enough
To plunge me in despair,
To give up such a nobleman!
With such a head of hair!
Besides, now don't be angry, Ma—
When Pa to bed is carried,
You've never time to talk to me—
I should like to be married!

MRS. LONG.
Like to be married! so you shall;
Yes, darling, to be sure—
But not to Lord Fitzlackstiver,
The amiable—but poor!
Your husband shall have golden coin
As countless as sea-sand;
Yes, child, the Duke Filchesterton
Has offer'd you his hand!

MISS LONG.
What do you say?—The Duke!—His Grace!
A Duchess!—can it be!
(He's sixty-five) how very odd
That he should fix on me!
The Duke!—(he can't have long to live)
His Grace! when will he call?
How lucky Lord Fitzlackstiver
Meant nothing after all!
The Duke!—he's very, very old;
But what's that to his wife!
You do not care three straws about
My father's time of life.
His Grace!—what gorgeous wedding clothes!
What jewels I shall get!
The diamonds of the family,
(I'll have them all new set.)
The Duke!—he can't live very long,
His husky cough is chronic,
And doubtless I shall find a friend
Exceedingly platonic.
You'll tell the Duke I'm flatter'd—pleased:—
Oh! stop, Mamma—you'll see,
Of course, that all his worldly goods
Are settled upon me.
A Duchess!—only think, Mamma,
I shall be call'd your Grace!
What had I best be married in,
White satin or blond lace?
Bless me! how very strange 'twill seem
To have a spouse on crutches!
I long to tell Fitzlackstiver
That I'm to be a Duchess.
Poor Fitz! It's well I'm not his wife;
It would have made me ill,
To go and make a fuss about
Some odious butcher's bill.
It never would have suited me
To hash the boil'd and roast!
And ascertain what eggs, and beer,
And soap, and candles cost!
Poor Fitz! don't let him marry, Ma—
Oh, apropos of marriage!
I must consult him when he calls,
About my travelling carriage.
The gout, they say, is apt to kill
When vital parts it touches;
Make haste, Mamma, and tell the Duke,
That I will be his Duchess!