University of Virginia Library

Scene Second.

—The Castle Battlements.
Enter Liska, L. 1 E.
Liska.
Well, I confess, in figure and in feature,
My brother's bride is a most splendid creature.
Your puling whimpering girls my temper vex;
But such as she are glories to our sex.
At mouse or spider she would never quake;
She's fully able her own part to take.
To her no saucy cab-driver would dare
To growl out, “What's this?” or, “It ain't the fare;”
She'd cut the would-be cheat uncommon short;
She'd take his number, and attend the Court;
And when he'd whine and abjectly implore,
Tell him, “He should have thought of that before.”
My poor big brother, which we're so afraid of him,
What fun to see the precious fool she's made of him.
Well, after all, a woman's greatest merit
Is beauty—kindness—modesty!—no—spirit!
Yet, how are all her energies confin'd,
Her garb she widens, but must curb her mind.
Yes, fate! most glorious hopes dost thou destroy,
By making me a girl, and not a boy.
High my ambition, as my brother's reaches;
Towns had I ta'en, had I mounted breaches;
I'd—

Enter Oglou, R. 1 E.
Oglou.
Well done, young lady!

Lisk.
Ah! you made me jump,
Oh my poor heart—it's going thump-a-thump.

Oglou.
A heroine's courage fall so soon to zero?

Lisk.
No heroine—only sister to a hero.

Oglou.
Yes, that is Timour's trade—a very bad one;
My only son to turn out such a sad one,
I hoped to see him keep a chandler's shop,
As I did once.

Lisk.
Pray let that subject drop!
Nothing like leather, so the fable read,
Till pliant paper volunteered instead.
Now, leather's so like nothing in its gains;
The maxim sore in Bermondsey obtains—
That he who goes, though seemingly through clover,
Too oft to Overend, ends in going over.

Oglou.
If for a milk-walk he had shewn affection,
I never should have made the least objection.
But to turn tyrant—what a horrid case!
Thus his poor honest parents to disgrace.
They say the child is father to the man,
And 'twas at school his wild career began,
With bad companions—worse than them he grew,
And t'other day, Mingrelia's monarch slew.
His tender offspring in a tow'r confined,—
His weeping widow—
Enter Zorilda, L. 1 E.
Hush! hush! never mind!

Lisk.
Oh, she! that's the air that I admire!

Zoril.
Young woman, have the goodness to retire.

Lisk.
Young woman! I am Timour's sister—

Zoril.
Oh!
I heard he had some low connections—go!
Exit Liska, in a rage, L.
Don't be offended, good old man; the style
Of Georgia's Princess I must ape awhile.

Oglou.
Ah, there it is; my senses you bewilder,
The Georgian I expect, but see, Zorilda,
Mingrelia's Dowager and Agib's mother!

Zoril.
The second title dearer than the other.
You'll stand by me?

Oglou.
Oh, yes!—but how?

Zoril.
List, list!

Oglou.
I am too old for soldiering.

Zoril.
Nay, you've missed
My meaning—which was “listen.” I was wrong
To quote. I'll tell my story in a song.
Song.—Zorilda. Air, “Cork Leg.”

Oglou.
But surely you had urgent motives, madam,
For coming here?

Zoril.
Yes, yes! of course I had 'em.
Song resumed.

Zoril.
Now, if you would but do a little treason,
You'd serve the cause of virtue.

Oglou.
That's a reason;
But still—

Zoril.
Well?

Oglou.
I approve of your design—
But think—if Agib's your son, Timour's mine.

Zoril.
That's inconvenient. Yes, 'twould greatly suit us,
Did you aspire to play the part of Brutus.
Come, sacrifice your son, and do what's right.

Oglou.
No—I don't seem to see it in that light.

Zoril.
Well then, I'll give my word that Timour's life
Shall be safe as houses. For a wife,
Whom Timour's sword made widow lone and sad,
I think my offer is by no means bad.

Oglou.
Madam, no gammon! Ugly and a brute
Was he whom Timour finished off.

Zoril.
Sans doute.
And it may be—the gods excuse the thought.
Perhaps I don't hate him for it as I ought.
His life's assured.

Oglou.
Then, madam, I'm your man—
If that's your policy, I'll aid your plan.
Song resumed by Oglou.
Exit Oglou, L.

Zoril.
(solus)
Aye, to the milk-walk—not the milky way,
Where countless stars their blended light display;
Not milk above, but humble “milk below”
Shall mark the passage of my fallen foe:
While rising high, as though to seek the moon,
Mounts the true heir like any air balloon.
Yes! Timour's sun shall set—while my brave son
Shall proudly sit—not set—upon his throne!
Song.—Zorilda.—Air, “Traviata.”
Exit Zorilda, R.