University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An elegant Apartment, ornamented with a few Busts and Books, a large Statue covered up, and a Door open into a more extensive Library.
Mr. Beril and Harry.
Mr. Beril.
Pray, Harry, remove from the statue its case;
And be careful in clearing the dust from its base.

Harry.
Directly, Sir?

Mr. Beril.
Yes! you must instantly do it,
For my worthy Lord Seewell is coming to view it.—
Now, my sweet Lady Frances! I soon shall behold
All thy quick sensibility wake and unfold:
Thou wilt pay to this sculpture the tribute most dear;
Thou wilt praise the fine work by an eloquent tear,
Unless by gay Harriot thy softness is check'd.
How I long in thy features to mark the effect
Produc'd by the wonders of exquisite art,
On a delicate mind and a sensible heart!
But why on thy graces do I rashly dwell?
Why study those charms, that I know but too well?
In my station 'tis madness to think of thy hand;
Yet thou, of all women in this lovely land,
Thou only could'st fill, in my desolate breast,
The place that my tender Sophia possest.

Harry
(advancing.)
There, Sir, 'tis as neat as a new-twisted cord;
But I hope you won't sell this fine thing to my Lord.
He's a desperate bidder for stone-work, I'm told;
Yet I hope you will keep it in spite of his gold.

Mr. Beril.
Do you hope so?—pray why?—I should rather have thought
You'd rejoice if his lordship the statue had bought;
It would save you some trouble.

Harry.
For that I don't care.
Why I wish you to keep it, I'll freely declare:—
I've observ'd, since the day that poor Miss Sophy died,
And that's five years, I think, next Bartholomew-tide,
There is only this statue, that's now in our sight,
In which you have seem'd to take any delight;
And if this marble woman your heart so engages,
Before you should sell her I'd give up my wages.

Mr. Beril.
Thou'rt a generous lad, with an excellent heart!—
Honest Harry! the statue and I shall not part.
But I hear a coach stop:—haste, and let my Lord in!

[Exit Harry.
Mr. Beril
(alone.)
Harry's warmth is affecting.—'Tis pleasant to win
A regard unconstrain'd from the low ranks of life,
Which are falsely suppos'd full of baseness and strife.
How mistaken is he, who incessantly raves,
That domestics are nothing but idiots or knaves!
When nature oft shines, with a lustre most fervent,
In the zeal of an honest, affectionate servant.

Enter Lord Seewell, with Lady Frances and Lady Harriot.
Lord Seewell.
Dear Beril, my girls would attend me, to see
Either you or your statue.—Howe'er that may be,
I know you'll allow them a sight of your treasure.

Mr. Beril.
My Lord, I confess, I had hopes of this pleasure;
And my statue henceforth I more highly shall rate,
Since to that I'm in debt for an honor so great.

Lady Harriot.
That's right, Mr. Beril:—I pray make it known,
That we come for the sake of the marble alone;
For tho' we have both a fair name, as I think,
Yet our poor reputations will instantly sink,
If 'tis said by your neighbour, old Lady Snap-Fan,
That instead of a statue, we visit a man.

Mr. Beril.
If on spirit and worth there is any reliance,
Lady Harriot may set every hag at defiance;
And force even Scandal in silence to sit—
If not just to her innocence, aw'd by her wit.

Lady Harriot.
My dear Sir, do not talk in so pleasing a tone,
If you do, I sha'n't relish the silence of stone,
And the statue 'll seem dull.—So pray! tell us where is it,
Pray present us to her that we're now come to visit.

Mr. Beril.
Here's the lady you honour.

[Shewing the Statue.
Lord Seewell.
Indeed, this is fine:
What perfect expression! what strength of design!

Mr. Beril.
Pray! my dear Lady Frances, advance to the place,
Which will give you, I think, the best view of the face.
'Tis the tender Alcestis, just yielding her breath,
On the arm of her husband reclining in death;
And tho' pain o'er her form so much languor has thrown,
You may still discern beauties resembling your own.

Lord Seewell.
Whence came it, dear Beril?—'tis surely antique;
The work, my good friend, is undoubtedly Greek.
I swear the Laocoon is not so fine:
Had I choice of the two, this, I'm clear, would be mine.
The subject more pleasing!—expression still higher!—
This long-hidden treasure where could you acquire?

Mr. Beril.
I owe it to chance, to acknowledge the truth,
And a princely and brave Neapolitan youth,
Whom I luckily sav'd, in a villainous strife,
From the dagger of jealousy, aim'd at his life.
The work was dug up on his father's estate,
And, knowing my passion for marble is great,
He nobly has sent me the gift in your view,
In return for what accident led me to do.

Lord Seewell.
'Tis the first piece of sculpture perhaps on the earth,
And I hardly know how to appreciate its worth;
But if ever you wish to dispose of the treasure,
I'll accept it at three thousand guineas with pleasure.

Mr. Beril.
My Lord, you now speak with that liberal spirit
Which you ever display when you estimate merit.
Tho' I own works of art, of such high estimation,
Seem but ill to agree with my fortune and station,
Yet these figures at present I wish to retain,
Tho' the wish may appear ostentatious and vain.
But, my Lord, if they e'er change their master anew,
They shall find a more worthy possessor in you.

Lady Harriot.
Well! ye dear connoisseurs! you amaze me, I own,
By the value you set on this sorrowful stone.
I indeed can believe 'tis a fine piece of art;
But to buy it for furniture!—as to my part,
I'd as soon o'er my house throw a sepulchre's gloom,
And purchase from Westminster-Abbey a tomb.

Lord Seewell.
You're a wild idle gipsy, and past all correcting;
You have not the least relish for what is affecting.

Lady Harriot.
That's your fault, dear Papa;—but my sister, you see,
Makes ample amends for this failing in me;
She gazes, like you, with such serious delight,
That she's half turn'd to marble herself by the sight:
I vow it has made her unable to speak,
And has drawn a cold tear down her petrified cheek.

Lady Frances.
Pray! my dear, don't expose me!

Mr. Beril.
O seek not to hide
What nature design'd your chief beauty and pride!—
With different charms she enriches the earth;
To your sister she gave the sweet dimples of mirth;
And, that each in her province no rival may find,
All the soft pensive graces to you she assign'd.

Lady Harriot.
Believe me, you shine, Mr. Beril, most brightly,
In the delicate science of praising politely;
In which many beaux are so savagely stupid,
They a scalping-knife take for the weapon of Cupid;
And to tickle one nymph, basely slash every other.—
Well! dear Frances, how are you?

Lady Frances.
Indeed I can't smother,
What I feel in surveying this wonder of art;
It has something which takes such fast hold of the heart.
In the faint dying wife such a fond resignation!
In the poor widow'd husband such wild agitation!
Such sorrow! such anguish! such love to Alcestis!

Lady Harriot.
That is true; but I know the whole story a jest is;
And Admetus, I think, such a shuffling poltroon,
That he moves me no more than the man in the moon.
A pitiful fellow! to live, in his case,
And let his poor wife pass the Styx in his place!
Modern husbands, indeed, I believe would be merry,
If their wives in their stead would cross over that ferry.

Mr. Beril.
But perhaps, Ma'am, you think that no husband could find
A young modern wife of Alcestis's mind?

Lady Harriot.
No! indeed, my good Sir!—Here's my dear sister Fan,
She'd be willing to die, to preserve her good man;
But I own for myself, I should doubt and demur,
If I thought my spouse wish'd his own trip to defer:
Tho' myself to his fortunes I'd freely devote,
If we both might embark at one time in the boat,
I confess I should scarce be so wondrously kind,
As to set sail myself, but to leave him behind.

Harry
(entering.)
Two gentlemen, Sir, wish to see you below;
Mr. Careless is one.

Lord Seewell
(to Mr. Beril.)
Harriot's favourite beau!

Lady Harriot.
Lord, Papa! Mr. Beril will think me in love.

Mr. Beril
(to Harry.)
Let the gentlemen know we expect them above.

[Exit Harry.
Lord Seewell.
Tom and Harriot have long had flirtations together,
But their courtship has changeable fits, like the weather:
The improvident girl, thinking lovers are plenty,
Declares she won't wed till she's past one-and-twenty;
Nor e'en then take her beau, (in her charms such her trust is)
Unless he bids fair to become a chief justice;
And Tom is the heir of too large an estate,
To load his gay spirit with law's heavy weight.
But here comes our young lawyer, to urge his own plea!

Enter Careless and Mr. Cycle.
Mr. Beril.
My dear Tom! how d'ye do?—My good stars! can it be?
Is it you, my dear Cycle, my long-absent friend?

Mr. Cycle.
And still heartily yours.

Mr. Beril.
But why would you not send,
And of your affection afford me a proof,
By bespeaking your quarters here under my roof.
However, I'm happy, that chance is so kind,
As to give me th'occasion I've long wish'd to find,
To present you to one, who, of all men on earth,
Is most able to judge of your genius and worth.—
My dear Lord, to your notice now let me commend
The man to whose name you're already a friend!
Behold Mr. Cycle!

Lord Seewell.
Dear Sir, let me say,
That I often have wish'd for this fortunate day,
Which makes me acquainted with one whom I deem
So justly entitled to public esteem;
Whose writings and life shew in fairest alliance,
Philanthropical virtue and genuine science.

Mr. Cycle.
My good Lord, these are honours far more than my due,
Yet I own with delight I receive them from you;
As you're led to o'er-rate my poor merits, I feel,
By this dear partial friend's kind affectionate zeal.

Lord Seewell.
He indeed is your friend—I regard his applause;
But to wish your acquaintance I've still higher cause.
Be assur'd I shall think myself truly your debtor,
If you'll give me the pleasure of knowing you better.
Either Beril or Careless will guide you to me;
I have some things perhaps it may please you to see:
Yet no gem, I believe, that's so worthy your sight,
As a statue which Beril has just brought to light.
Allow me to shew it you—

Mr. Beril
(to Lady Frances.)
Your tender breast,
My dear Lady Frances, I fear, is opprest
By this sculptur'd distress, the mere creature of art,
Yet too painful a scene for so feeling a heart.

Lady Frances.
No, indeed!—at first sight, tho' it made my veins thrill,
And I felt thro' my bosom a cold icy chill,
That impression once over, I view it again
With a soothing delight, unembitter'd by pain.

Lady Harriot
(to Careless.)
And pray, Sir, from which court of justice come you?

Careless.
From the worshipful court of wise Madam Bijou;
Where, blind as old Themis, she utters decrees
On the price of stuff'd parrots and petrified trees.

Lady Harriot.
O you mischievous creature! you certainly mean,
By the sound of her name to awaken my spleen:
You know that the thought of her sickens me quite,
And that I at her house must do penance to-night.

Careless.
Then I vow I'll be there, if it's only to see
How Mortification and you may agree:
Even that gloomy spright must appear with some grace,
If it lurks in the lines of so lively a face.

Lady Harriot.
All my gaiety dies when her presence I come in;
No cramp-fish could give me a shock so benumbing—
She's my utter aversion—.

Lord Seewell.
Pray tell me, my dear,
Of whom do you speak in a style so severe?

Lady Harriot.
Of your friend, dear Papa, your good Mrs. Bijou.

Lord Seewell.
That's ungrateful, dear Harriot—she's civil to you;
And you should not indulge a satyrical vein.

Lady Harriot.
You forget, my dear Sir, how you often complain
That her low little pride, and nonsensical whim,
Have reduc'd your old friend to a pitiful trim;
And I think she has made him so gloomy a slave,
She has pent her good man in Trophonius's cave.
Such to him was the temple of Hymen; for after
He enter'd its vestibule,—farewell to laughter.

Lord Seewell.
Why, Harriot! you really are quite acrimonious:
But if you call wedlock the cave of Trophonius,
Have a care, if that cavern you chance to step near!
You love laughing too well to resign it, my dear.

Lady Harriot.
And therefore, tho' woo'd like the nymph of Toboso,
I never will marry an old virtuoso,
Who thinks himself blest with taste, science, and worth,
Because he picks up all the odd things on earth.—
When a passion for art, or for nature, is join'd
With a warm friendly heart, and a liberal mind,
I respect the pure taste which that union produces,
Free from vanity's sordid fantastic abuses.
Tho' I do not possess it, I see and commend
Such taste, dear Papa, both in you and your friend;
But I view with an utter contempt, I confess,
Those who awkwardly ape what you really possess:
And for Mrs. Bijou, she has just as much soul
As a monkey, who carries queer things to its hole:
She with wonderful gusto, half Gothic, half Dutch,
Like an old squirrel, hides all she can in her hutch.

Careless.
An excellent portrait! and true, I protest,
For I've just had a peep at the old squirrel's nest.

Lady Harriot.
Pray, since we together her closet inspected,
What whimsical rarities has she collected?

Careless.
O, before I could count half the baubles she buys,
I could tell you the name of each star in the shies:
Her sphere is too wide for my genius to scan it;
But I know what she reckons her Georgian planet,
Her newly-found star—which to-night, if you're free,
Thro' a glass she perhaps may allow you to see.

Lady Harriot.
What wonder is this?—is it flesh, fish, or fowl?
A Lilliput dog? or a Brobdignag owl?
Or is it a remnant from Joseph's odd coat?

Careless.
It is something once held by a person of note
In our island; and now I defy you to guess.

Lady Harriot.
Is it Essex's ring? or the ruff of Queen Bess?
Or Alfred's cake-toaster? or Rizzio's fiddle?
Pray tell me!—I hate to be teaz'd by a riddle.

Careless.
In short, 'tis a night-cap, not worth half a groat,
Which she for a guinea has luckily bought;
Because this old fragment of worsted, she vows,
Once serv'd as a crown for poor Chatterton's brows:
Tho' I think we should find, if we knew the whole truth,
That the cap was ne'er seen by that wonderful youth.

Lady Harriot.
Now, Chatterton! boast, that thy ill-fated verse
Can teach antiquarians to open their purse!
Yet hadst thou, in misery, su'd for that guinea,
Its mistress had call'd thee a vain rhyming ninny;
And prov'd, to thy grief, by the style of her giving,
Virtuoso's have little esteem for the living.

Lord Seewell.
Come, Harriot! I must stop the ride of your wit,
Tho' you're now on a topic you don't love to quit.
(To Mr. Beril.)
We must take our leave—Many thanks for our pleasure.—
Mr. Cycle, remember!—your first day of leisure!—
You sha'n't stir, my dear Beril, you sha'n't leave your friend;
Here is Careless, you know, on the girls to attend.
Let us see you together, and shortly!—Adieu!

Lady Harriot
(to Careless, aside.)
Below let me whisper a few words to you!

Mr. Beril and Mr. Cycle.
Mr. Beril.
Well, my worthy old friend, I rejoice you are here,
And that now you are known to that excellent peer;
Who, free from all pride, affectation, and vanity,
Unites useful virtue to pleasing urbanity;
Plain, simple, sincere, yet of judgment refin'd,
And fond of the arts, as they're friends to mankind;
Ennobled much less by his birth than his spirit,
The model of Honor, and patron of Merit!
But how have you done for this age? and what plan,
For the profit of science, or service of man,
Brings you now from your fav'rite sequester'd retreat?
Whate'er the occasion, I'm glad that we meet;
Tho' I meant to be with you ere next summer's sun.

Mr. Cycle.
I know, my dear Beril, that you are not one
Whose welcome will suddenly sink into sorrow,
When I tell you, I now visit London to borrow.

Mr. Beril.
If I'm able to levy the sum you require,
The world can scarce give me a pleasure much higher,
Than that of assisting a friend, to whose mind
I have infinite debts of a far deeper kind.
I can never forget what I owe to your care,
In the frenzy of desolate love and despair;
When my reason had yielded to passion's wild strife,
Your friendship alone reconcil'd me to life.
But tell me, dear Cycle, what sum will suffice?

Mr. Cycle.
You must know, I have lately been led to devise
A scheme for the poor—

Mr. Beril.
My dear friend, at your leisure
I'll hear your benevolent projects with pleasure;
But farther discourse you must let me prevent,
On the source of your wants, till I know their extent;
For indeed I can't rest, till I'm happily sure
That whatever you wish I have means to procure.

Mr. Cycle.
Not to keep you in doubt, then, my dear ardent friend,
Two thousand, I fancy, will answer my end:
The one I am promis'd to-day from Bijou;
For the other, I own, I've depended on you.

Mr. Beril.
And why not allow me to furnish the whole?—
Poor Bijou has a wife with no liberal soul;
If any demur in that quarter you see,
I entreat you to take all you wish for of me.
But of this more anon—here is Careless return'd.

Mr. Beril, Mr. Cycle, and Careless.
Careless.
Well! my worthy philosopher, a'n't you concern'd
To find our friend still unsupply'd with a wife,
Thus form'd as he is for the conjugal life?
As you're fond of new schemes for the good of the nation,
I'll recommend one to your consideration;
To revive wedded love, that old, obsolete passion,
And bring honest Hymen again into fashion!

Mr. Cycle.
In truth, my dear Tom, I am quite of your mind,
There is no better scheme for the good of mankind;
And nothing, I know, that could give it more weight,
Than the grace which our friend would bestow on that state.

Mr. Beril.
You are merry, good friends!—I subscribe to your joke—
My gravity's fit for the conjugal yoke!

Careless.
I am serious, indeed, and have often declar'd,
That had I a sister, for wedlock prepar'd,
Of all men in the world, if you'd deign to embrace her,
In your arms it would make me most happy to place her.
But you're courted too much to be easily won;
He, whom many are fond of, can fix upon none.

Mr. Beril.
Indeed, my dear Tom, you are wrong on this theme.—
In return for a proof of your cordial esteem,
I'll tell you the reason, with frankness and truth,
Why no nymph has supply'd the lost love of my youth:
There is one, whose mild virtue and elegant grace,
The dear girl I deplore in my heart might replace;
But my fortune's too humble for her rank of life,
Tho' she may be your sister, she can't be my wife.

Careless.
Would you wed Lady Frances?

Mr. Cycle.
The lady I've seen?—
She is like poor Sophia in features and mien.

Mr. Beril.
You are right, my dear friend;—it was that very thought
Led my heart to attach itself more than it ought:
But my reason considers her rank and her station,
And forbids me to form any rash expectation.
Nor would I attempt to engage her affection,
Without the least hope of our happy connection.

Careless.
More honor than foresight you shew by this strain.
Be bold!—there is nothing you may not attain.—
More of this when we meet!—I must now say adieu.

Mr. Cycle.
So must I—for you know my appointment at two.

Mr. Beril.
But I hope, my good friends, you will both dine with me.

Mr. Cycle.
For myself, I'll return to you soon after three.

Careless.
I am griev'd to refuse such a frank invitation:
But to tell you the truth—I've a kind assignation.

Mr. Beril.
Love and pleasure attend you!

Careless.
Dear Beril, adieu!
Let us all meet to-night at the house of Bijou!

[Exeunt.
The Drawing Room of Mrs. Bijou.
Mrs. Bijou
(speaking as she enters.)
Look over the stair-case! and tell me who knocks!

Joan
(entering.)
Mr. Varnish is come, with a thing in a box.

Mrs. Bijou.
A thing in a box!—You're a horrible Goth:
But as you're to leave me, I'll stifle my wrath.
'Tis a picture, you oaf!—bid him bring it to me.
[Exit Joan.
Some cabinet jewel I now hope to see.
This intelligent Varnish my patronage courts,
And I get the first peep at whate'er he imports.

Mrs. Bijou and Mr. Varnish.
Mrs. Bijou.
Well, Varnish!

Mr. Varnish.
Dear Madam, with most humble duty,
I have brought you a gem of unparagon'd beauty.

Mrs. Bijou.
Good Varnish! what is it?

Mr. Varnish.
An exquisite Titian.
You never saw one in such brilliant condition.

Mrs. Bijou.
And what is the subject?

Mr. Varnish
(opening the Case.)
Now, Ma'am, I'll display it.—
Here's a feast for the eye that knows how to survey it!
Here's a Joseph!—I ne'er saw his like in my life.
And pray, Ma'am, observe what a Potiphar's wife!
How chaste the design! yet the colours how warm!
What tints in each face! and what life in each form!
Pray! Madam, remark how he struggles to fly!
We hear him exclaiming, “No, Mistress! not I!”

Mrs. Bijou.
It seems very fine, and has striking expression.—
Was it ever in any great person's possession?

Mr. Varnish.
Not a soul here has seen it, except a poor Peer,
For whom it was bought:—but, alas! 'twas too dear.
His steward, my friend—but I must not be rash,
And betray a good Earl, with more gusto than cash.—
Our Lords are all poor, and so ruin'd my trade is,
I should starve, were it not for you well-judging ladies.
There's my old Lady Ogle-nud, had she a peep,
Would certainly buy it before she would sleep:
But having receiv'd many favours from you,
I made it a point you should have the first view.

Mrs. Bijou.
I thank you, good Varnish.—But what is the price?

Mr. Varnish.
She'd give me a thousand, I know, in a trice,
And buy some companions besides, if I had 'em;
But I'll leave it with you for eight hundred, dear Madam.

Mrs. Bijou.
Eight hundred!—Sure, Varnish, that sum is too much.

Mr. Varnish.
Dear Madam, observe what a delicate touch!
See how finely 'tis pencil'd! and what preservation!
There is not, I know, such a gem in the nation;
And Italy has not a brighter, I'm sure.
The figures so glowing! the story so pure!—
Good ladies would never have wandering spouses,
If they'd only hang subjects like this in their houses.

Mrs. Bijou.
I protest, your remark is ingenious and new:
You have gusto in Morals as well as Virtù.

Mr. Varnish
(aside.)
I have hopes that my hint will assist our transaction,
For the old dame is jealous, they say, to distraction.

Mrs. Bijou.
Well! I own, Mr. Varnish, your picture is fine.—
If my husband is rich, it shall quickly be mine.
Here he comes to decide it.

Enter Mr. Bijou.
Mrs. Bijou.
My dear, here's a sight!
You are luckily come to complete my delight.
Mr. Varnish has been so exceedingly kind,
As he knows on a Titian I've long set my mind,
To bring me the finest I ever survey'd:
And as we have often befriended his trade,
He offers to leave it a bargain with us.

Mr. Bijou.
Its merit or price it is vain to discuss:
Tho' the picture possesses so tempting an air,
At present, my dear, I've no money to spare.

Mrs. Bijou.
Mr. Varnish, pray step in the parlour below!
Our final resolve you shall presently know.

Mr. Varnish.
Dear Madam, for hours I'll wait on your pleasure;
And I beg you will note all its beauties at leisure.
(Aside, as he goes out.)
Now success to the sex!—Be this struggle more glorious!
May the Joseph be kind! and the Lady victorious!

Mrs. Bijou.
My dearest, you'll not let the picture depart,
When you see it has taken such hold on my heart!—
I really can't rest, till a Titian we've got,
That we may have something Lord Seewell has not.
And as we expect him, you know, here to-night,
I would shew him this piece with triumphant delight.

Mr. Bijou.
I love to indulge all your wishes, my dear;
But I'm quite out of cash.

Mrs. Bijou.
Nay! Bijou! I am clear
You have now all I want in your pocket.—Come! come!
I know you went out to receive a large sum;
And still have it about you.—I vow I will look.—
Here it is!—here are notes in this little red book.

[Takes out his Pocket-Book.
Mr. Bijou.
Indeed, I must beg you that book to release!

Mrs. Bijou.
Here are ten, I declare, of an hundred apiece!—
I'll take just enough, and restore you the rest.

Mr. Bijou.
I can't suffer this freedom, my dear, I protest;
For the notes are not mine, they belong to a friend.

Mrs. Bijou.
To a friend!—O! I guess, Sir, to whom you would lend.
Your sly-looking guest, Mr. Cycle's the man;
I know he was here on a borrowing plan.
Throw your thousand away on a charity bubble!
And leave your poor wife to vexation and trouble!

Mr. Bijou.
Nay! my dear, be not vex'd!—you have misunderstood:
The sum will be safe, and the interest good.

Mrs. Bijou.
And what is the pitiful profit you'll raise,
Compar'd to the transport with which we should gaze
On the picture my fondness would have you possess,
For reasons the purest that wife can profess?
Unkind as you are!—I have reasons above
Even profit and pleasure—the reasons of love.
'Tis my aim, by this modest production of art,
To strengthen your virtue and chasten your heart.
If you daily survey an example so bright,
This model of continence ever in sight,
No naughty young women will tempt you to wander,
But your truth and your love will grow firmer and fonder.

Mr. Bijou.
What a tender idea!—how virtuously kind!
What affection and taste! by each other refin'd!

Mrs. Bijou.
But if for a poor and a foolish projector,
You can thwart a fond wife, can afflict and neglect her—
Go! go! I shall weep, while abroad you may roam,
That your charity has no beginning at home.

Mr. Bijou.
It begins, and shall end there.—I'm melted, my dear!—
You may keep all the notes!—Let me kiss off that tear!

Mrs. Bijou.
Now again you're my own, dear, delightful Bijou!
And the Titian is mine, and my love will be true!

[Exit in great haste.
Mr. Bijou
(alone.)
Such virtuous endearments what heart could resist?
Yet I fear by poor Cycle this sum will be miss'd.
And what shall I say for the failure?—In sooth,
I think 'twill be fairest to tell him the truth:
And, sage as he is, he perhaps too has felt
That gold, at the breath of a woman, will melt.—
As I live, here he is! and I look rather small,
With a pocket so empty, to answer his call.

Enter Mr. Cycle.
Mr. Bijou.
Mr. Cycle, you're come, and I'm really confus'd;
But I know the mischance will by you be excus'd.
In notes I had got you the thousand complete,
They were all in this pocket—

Mr. Cycle.
The thieves of the street
Have not pick'd it, I hope, in the bustle of strife?

Mr. Bijou.
It was pick'd, I confess, by the hand of my wife;
But for reasons so pure, in so tender a mode—

Mr. Cycle.
I am happy the sum is so justly bestow'd.

Mr. Bijou.
I know you'll forgive, when I come to explain.

Mr. Cycle.
Dear Bijou! let me save you at once from that pain;
And assure you, with truth, that I now really come
As ready to quit, as to take up the sum;
Since Beril's so kind, that, without my desire,
He has offer'd me all that my wants can require.

Mr. Bijou.
I protest, I am glad you have found such a friend;
But if you hereafter should wish me to lend,
I beg you will call without scruple on me.—
Your worthy friend Beril to-night we shall see;
And Seewell, in gusto the first of our Earls,
Will be here with his daughters, two delicate girls!
To prove, my good friend, your forgiveness is hearty,
Let me hope you will kindly make one of the party!

Mr. Cycle.
Most chearfully!

Mr. Bijou.
Well!—I am griev'd, I must say,
That I cannot detain you to dinner to-day;
But to tell you the truth, when for these gala nights
My wife is preparing to shew her fine sights,
She spends so much time in adjusting her shelves,
That we take a cold snap in the kitchen ourselves.
So I'm sure you'll excuse it.

Mr. Cycle.
Your reason is strong;
And I'm sorry, my friend, I've intruded so long.

Mr. Bijou.
We have time enough yet—do not hurry away!

Mr. Cycle.
It really grows late.

Mr. Bijou.
I won't press you to stay,
As at night o'er our concert you'll come to preside.—
I am heartily glad all your wants are supply'd.

Mr. Cycle.
Indeed, I believe you, my honest Bijou!
So, till night, fare you well!

Mr. Bijou.
My dear Cycle, adieu!