University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene.—Exterior of Castle Bunthorne. Entrance to castle by draw-bridge over moat. Young Ladies dressed in æsthetic draperies are grouped about the stage. They play on lutes, mandolines, etc., as they sing, and all are in the last stage of despair. Angela, Ella, and Saphir lead them.
Ang.

There is a strange magic in this love of ours! Rivals
as we all are in the affections of our Reginald, the very hopelessness
of our love is a bond that binds us to one another!

Saph.

Jealousy is merged in misery. While he, the very
cynosure of our eyes and hearts remains icy insensible—what
have we to strive for?

Ella.

The love of maidens is, to him, as interesting as the
taxes!

Saph.

Would that it were! He pays his taxes.

Ang.

And cherishes the receipts!

Enter Lady Jane.
Jane
(suddenly).

Fools!

Ang.

I beg your pardon?

Jane.

Fools and blind! The man loves—wildly loves!

Ang.

But whom? None of us!

Jane.

No, none of us. His weird fancy has lighted, for the
nonce, on Patience—the village milkmaid!

Saph.

On, Patience? Oh, it cannot be!

Jane.

Bah! But yesterday I caught him in her dairy,
eating fresh butter with a table-spoon. To-day he is not well!

Saph.

But Patience boasts that she has never loved—that
love is, to her, a sealed book! Oh, he cannot be serious.

Jane.

'Tis but a fleeting fancy—'twill quickly pass away.
(Aside.)
Oh, Reginald, if you but knew what a wealth of
golden love is waiting for you, stored up in this rugged old
bosom of mine, the milkmaid's triumph would be short indeed!

[All sigh wearily.
[Patience appears on an eminence. She looks down with pity on the despondent Ladies.
Recitative.
Pa.
Still brooding on their mad infatuation!
I thank thee, Love, thou comest not to me;
Far happier I, free from thy ministration,
Than dukes or duchesses who love, can be!

Saph.
(looking up).
'Tis Patience—happy girl! Loved by a Poet!

Pa.
Your pardon, ladies. I intrude upon you! (Going.)


Ang.
Nay, pretty child, come hither. Is it true
That you have never loved?

Pa.
Most true indeed.

Sopranos.
Most marvellous!

Contraltos.
And most deplorable!

Song.—Patience.

Chorus.
Yes, she is blithe, etc.

Pa.
If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next your heart?
And if it be none of these, say I,
Why do you sit and sob and sigh?
Though everywhere, etc.

Chorus.
For she is blithe, etc.

Ang.

Ah, Patience, if you have never loved, you have never
known true happiness! (All sigh.)

Pa.

But the truly happy always seem to have so much on
their minds. The truly happy never seem quite well.

Jane.

There is a transcendentality of delirium—an acute
accentuation of supremest ecstacy—which the earthy might
easily mistake for indigestion. But it is not indigestion—it is
æsthetic transfiguration! (To the others.)
Enough of babble.
Come!

Pa.

But I have some news for you. The 35th Dragoon

Guards have halted in the village, and are even now on their
way to this very spot.

Ang.

The 35th Dragoon Guards!

Saph.

They are fleshly men, of full habit!

Ella.

We care nothing for Dragoon Guards!

Pa.

But, bless me, you were all in love with them a year ago!

Saph.

A year ago!

Ang.

My poor child, you don't understand these things. A
year ago they were very well in our eyes, but since then our
tastes have been etherealized, our perceptions exalted. (To the others.)

Come! it is time to lift up our voices in morning
carol to our Reginald. Let us to his door.

[The Ladies go off two and two into the Castle, singing refrain of “Twenty love-sick maidens we,” and accompanying themselves on harps and mandolins. Patience watches them in surprise, as she climbs the rock by which she entered.
March. Enter Officers of Dragoon Guards, led by Major.
Chorus of Dragoons.
The soldiers of our Queen
Are linked in friendly tether;
Upon the battle scene
They fight the foe together.
There every mother's son
Prepared to fight and fall is;
The enemy of one
The enemy of all is!

Enter Colonel.
Song.—Colonel.
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
Rattle them off to a popular tune.
The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—
Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;
The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—
Coolness of Paget about to trepan—
The science of Jullien, the eminent musico—
Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—
The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—
Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—
The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery—
Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—
Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—
Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—
Anthony Trollope and Mr. Guizot!
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set them to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

Chorus.
Yes! yes! yes! yes!
A Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

Col.
If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,
Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—
Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—
A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—
Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—
The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—
Grace of an Odalisque on a divan,
The genius strategic of Cæsar of Hanibal—
Skill of Sir Garnet in thrashing a cannibal—
Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—
Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—
Beadle of Burlington—Richardson's show—
Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!
Take of these elements all that is fusible—
Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible—
Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

All.
Yes! yes! yes! yes!
A Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

Col.

Well, here we are again on the scene of our former
triumphs. But where's the Duke?

Enter Duke, listlessly, and in low spirits.
Duke.

Here I am! (Sighs.)

Col.

Come, cheer up, don't give way!

Duke.

Oh, for that, I'm as cheerful as a poor devil can be
expected to be, who has the misfortune to be a duke, with a
thousand a day!

Maj.

Humph! Most men would envy you!

Duke.

Envy me? Tell me, Major, are you fond of toffee?

Maj.

Very!

Col.

We are all fond of toffee.

All.

We are!

Duke.

Yes, and toffee in moderation is a capital thing. But
to live on toffee—toffee for breakfast, toffee for dinner, toffee for
tea—to have it supposed that you care for nothing but toffee,
and that you would consider yourself insulted if anything but
toffee were offered to you—how would you like that?

Col.

I can believe that, under those circumstances, even toffee
would become monotonous.

Duke.

For “toffee” read flattery, adulation, and abject

deference, carried to such a pitch that I began, at last, to think
that man was born bent at an angle of forty-five degrees!
Great heavens, what is there to adulate in me! Am I particularly
intelligent, or remarkably studious, or excruciatingly
witty, or unusually accomplished, or exceptionally virtuous?

Col.

You're about as commonplace a young man as ever I
saw.

All.

You are!

Duke.

Exactly! That's it exactly! That describes me to
a T! Thank you all very much! Well, I couldn't stand it
any longer so I joined this regiment. In the army, thought I,
I shall be occasionally snubbed, perhaps even bullied, who
knows? The thought was rapture, and here I am.

Col.
(looking off).

Yes, and here are the ladies!

Duke.

But who is the gentleman with the long hair?

Col.

I don't know.

Duke.

He seems popular!

Col.

He does seem popular!

Bunthorne enters, followed by Ladies, two and two, singing and playing on harps as before. He is composing a poem, and quite absorbed. He sees no one, but walks across stage, followed by Ladies. They take no notice of Dragoons—to the surprise and indignation of those Officers.
Chorus of Ladies.
In a melancholy train
Two and two we walk all day—
Pity those who love in vain
None so sorrowful as they
Who can only sigh and say,
Woe is me alackaday!

Chorus of Dragoons.
Now is not this ridiculous—and is not this preposterous?
A thorough-paced absurdity—explain it if you can.
Instead of rushing eagerly to cherish us and foster us,
They all prefer this melancholy literary man.
Instead of slyly peering at us,
Casting looks endearing at us,
Blushing at us, flushing at us—flirting with a fan;
They're actually sneering at us, fleering at us, jeering at us!
Pretty sort of treatment for a military man!
Pretty sort of treatment for a military man!

Ang.
Mystic poet, hear our prayer,
Twenty love-sick maidens we—
Young and wealthy, dark and fair—
And we die for love of thee!
Yes, we die for love of thee—
Twenty love-sick maidens we!

Bun.
(aside—slyly).
Though my book I seem to scan.
In a rapt ecstatic way,
Like a literary man
Who despises female clay;
I hear plainly all they say,
Twenty love-sick maidens they!

Officers
(to each other).
He hears plainly, etc.

Ella.
Though so excellently wise,
For a moment mortal be,
Deign to raise thy purple eyes
From thy heart-drawn poesy.
Twenty love-sick maidens see—
Each is kneeling on her knee! (All kneel.)


Cho. of Ladies.
Twenty love-sick, etc.

Bun.
(aside).
Though as I remarked before,
Any one convinced would be
That some transcendental lore
Is monopolizing me,
Round the corner I can see
Each is kneeling on her knee!

Officers
(to each other).
Round the corner, etc.

Ensemble.
Officers.
Now is not this ridiculous, etc.

Ladies.
Mystic poet, hear our prayers, etc.

Bunthorne
(aside).
Though my book I seem to scan, etc.

Col.

Angela! what is the meaning of this?

Ang.

Oh, sir, leave us; our minds are but ill-attuned to light
love-talk.

Maj.

But what in the world has come over you all?

Jane.

Bunthorne! He has come over us. He has come
among us, and he has idealized us.

Duke.

Has he succeeded in idealizing you?

Jane.

He has!

Duke.

Bravo, Bunthorne!

Jane.

My eyes are open; I droop despairingly; I am soulfully
intense; I am limp, and I cling!

[During this Bunthorne is seen in all the agonies of composition. The Ladies are watching him intently as he writhes. At last, he hits on the word he wants and writes it down. A general sense of relief.
Bun.

Finished! At last! Finished!

[He staggers, overcome with the mental strain, into arms of Colonel.
Col.

Are you better now?

Bun.

Yes—oh, it's you—I am better now. The poem is
finished, and my soul had gone out into it. That was all. It
was nothing worth mentioning, it occurs three times a day.
(Sees Patience, who has entered during this scene.)
Ah,
Patience! Dear Patience! (Holds her hand; she seems frightened.)

Ang.

Will it please you read it to us, sir?

Saph.

This we supplicate. (All kneel.)

Bun.

Shall I?

All the Dragoons.

No!

Bun.
(annoyed—to Patience).

I will read it if you bid me!

Pa.
(much frightened).

You can if you like!

Bun.

It is a wild, weird, fleshly thing; yet very tender, very
yearning, very precious. It is called, “Oh, Hollow! Hollow!
Hollow!”

Pa.

Is it a hunting song?

Bun.

A hunting song? No, it is not a hunting song. It is
the wail of the poet's heart on discovering that everything is
commonplace. To understand it, cling passionately to one
another and think of faint lilies. (They do so, as he recites.)

“OH, HOLLOW! HOLLOW! HOLLOW!

Ang.

How purely fragrant!

Saph.

How earnestly precious!

Duke.

Well, it seems to me to be nonsense.

Saph.

Nonsense; yes, perhaps—but, oh, what precious nonsense!

All.

Ah!

Col.

This is all very well; but you seem to forget that you
are engaged to us!

Saph.

It can never be. You are not Empyrean. You are
not Della Cruscan. You are not even Early English. Oh, be
Early English ere it is too late! (Officers look at each other in astonishment.)

Jane
(looking at uniform).

Red and yellow! Primary
colours! Oh, South Kensington!

Duke.

We didn't design our uniforms, but we don't see how
they could be improved.

Jane.

No, you wouldn't. Still there is a cobwebby grey
velvet, with a tender bloom like cold gravy, which, made
Florentine fourteenth century, trimmed with Venetian leather
and Spanish altar lace, and surmounted with something
Japanese—it matters not what—would at least be Early
English! Come maidens.

[Exeunt Maidens, two and two, singing, refrain of “Twenty love-sick maidens we.” The Officers watch them off in astonishment.
Duke.

Gentlemen, this is an insult to the British uniform.

Col.

A uniform that has been as successful in the courts of
Venus as in the field of Mars!

Song.—Colonel.
When I first put this uniform on,
I said, as I looked in the glass,
“It's one to a million
That any civilian,
My figure and form will surpass.
Gold lace has a charm for the fair,
And I've plenty of that, and to spare,
While a lover's professions,
When uttered in Hessians,
Are eloquent everywhere!”
A fact that I counted upon,
When I first put this uniform on!

Chorus of Dragoons.
By a simple coincidence, few
Could ever have reckoned upon,
The same thing occurred to me, too,
When I first put this uniform on!

Col.
I said, when I first put it on,
“It is plain to the veriest dunce
That every beauty
Will feel it her duty
To yield to its glamour at once.
They will see that I'm freely gold-laced
In a uniform handsome and chaste”—
But the peripatetics
Of long-haired æsthetics,
Are very much more to their taste—
Which I never counted upon
When I first put this uniform on!

Cho.
By a simple coincidence, few
Could ever have counted upon,
I didn't anticipate that,
When I first put this uniform on!

[The Dragoons go off angrily.
[As soon as he is alone, Bunthorne changes his manner and becomes intensely melodramatic.
Recitative and Song.—Bunthorne.
Song.

At the end of his song Patience enters. He sees her.
Bun.

Ah! Patience, come hither. I am pleased with thee.
The bitter-hearted one, who finds all else hollow, is pleased with
thee. For you are not hollow. Are you?

Pa.

I beg your pardon—I interrupt you.

Bun.

Life is made up of interruptions. The tortured soul,
yearning for solitude, writhes under them. Oh, but my heart
is a-weary! Oh, I am a cursed thing! Don't go.

Pa.

Really, I'm very sorry—

Bun.

Tell me, girl, do you ever yearn?

Pa.
(misunderstanding him).

I earn my living.

Bun.
(impatiently).

No, no! Do you know what it is to be
heart-hungry? Do you know what it is to yearn for the

Indefinable, and yet to be brought face to face, daily, with the
Multiplication Table? Do you know what it is to seek oceans
and to find puddles?—to long for whirlwinds and to have to do
the best you can with the bellows? That's my case. Oh, I
am a cursed thing!

Pa.

If you please, I don't understand you—you frighten me!

Bun.

Don't be frightened—it's only poetry.

Pa.

If that's poetry, I don't like poetry.

Bun.
(eagerly).

Don't you? (Aside.)
Can I trust her?
(Aloud.)
Patience, you don't like poetry—well, between you
and me, I don't like poetry. It's hollow, unsubstantial—unsatisfactory.
What's the use of yearning for Elysian Fields
when you know you can't get 'em, and would only let 'em out
on building leases if you had 'em?

Pa.

Sir, I—

Bun.

Don't go. Patience, I have long loved you—let me
tell you a secret. I am not as bilious as I look. If you like I
will cut my hair. There is more innocent fun within me than
a casual spectator would imagine. You have never seen
me frolicsome. Be a good girl—a very good girl—and you
shall.

Pa.

Sir, I will speak plainly. In the matter of love I am
untaught, I have never loved but my great-aunt. But I am
quite certain that, under any circumstances, I couldn't possibly
love you.

Bun.

Oh, you think not?

Pa.

I'm quite sure of it. Quite sure. Quite.

Bun.
(releasing her).

Very good. Life is henceforth a blank.
I don't care what becomes of me. I have only to ask that you
will not abuse my confidence; though you despise me, I am
extremely popular with the other young ladies.

Pa.

I only ask that you will leave me and never renew the
subject.

Bun.

Certainly. Broken-hearted and desolate I go. (Recites.)

“Oh, to be wafted away
From this black Aceldama of sorrow,
Where the dust of an earthy to-day
Is the earth of a dusty to-morrow!”

It is a little thing of my own. I call it “Heart Foam.” I
shall not publish it. Farewell!

[Exit Bunthorne.

Pa.

What on earth does it all mean? Why does he love
me? Why does he expect me to love him? He's not a
relation! It frightens me!

Enter Angela.
Ang.

Why, Patience, what is the matter?

Pa.

Lady Angela, tell me two things. Firstly, what on
earth is this love that upsets everybody; and secondly, how is
it to be distinguished from insanity?

Ang.

Poor blind girl! Oh, forgive her, Eros! Why, love is
of all passions the most essential! It is the embodiment of
purity, the abstraction of refinement; it is the one unselfish
emotion in this whirlpool of grasping greed!

Pa.

Oh dear, oh! (Beginning to cry.)

Ang.

Why are you crying?

Pa.

To think that I have lived all these years without
having experienced this ennobling and unselfish passion! Why,
what a wicked girl I must be! For it is unselfish, isn't it?

Ang.

Absolutely. Love that is tainted with selfishness is no
love. Oh, try, try, try to love! It really isn't difficult if you
give your whole mind to it.

Pa.

I'll set about it at once. I won't go to bed until I'm
head over ears in love with somebody.

Ang.

Noble girl. But is it possible that you have never
loved anybody?

Pa.

Yes, one.

Ang.

Ah, whom?

Pa.

My great-aunt.

Ang.

Your great-aunt doesn't count.

Pa.

Then there's nobody. At least—no, nobody. Not since
I was a baby. But that don't count, I suppose.

Ang.

I don't know—tell me all about it.

Duet.—Patience and Angela.
Pa.
Long years ago, fourteen, maybe,
When but a tiny babe of four,
Another baby played with me,
My elder by a year or more.
A little child of beauty rare,
With marvellous eyes and wondrous hair.
Who, in my child-eyes, seemed to me
All that a little child should be!
Ah, how we loved, that child and I
How pure our baby joy!
How true our love—and, by-the-by,
He was a little boy!

Ang.
Ah, old, old tale of Cupid's touch!
I thought as much—I thought as much!
He was a little boy!

Pa.
(shocked).
Pray don't misconstrue what I say—
Remember, pray—remember, pray,
He was a little boy!

Ang.
No doubt, yet spite of all your pains,
The interesting fact remains—
He was a little boy!
Ensemble.
Ah, yes/No doubt in spite of all my/her pains, etc.

[Exit Angela.
Pa.

It's perfectly appalling to think of the dreadful state
I must be in! I had no idea that love was a duty. No wonder
they all look so unhappy. Upon my word, I hardly like to
associate with myself. I don't think I'm respectable. I'll go
at once and fall in love with—

Enter Grosvenor.
Pa.

A stranger!

Duet.—Patience and Grosvenor.
Gros.
Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee tell me true,
(Hey, but I'm doleful, willow willow waly!)
Have you e'er a lover a dangling after you?
Hey willow waly O!
I would fain discover
If you have a lover?
Hey willow waly O!

Pa.
Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—
(Hey, but he's doleful, willow willow waly!)
Nobody I care for comes a courting me—
Hey willow waly O!
Nobody I care for
Comes a courting—therefore,
Hey willow waly O!

Gros.
Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?
(Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow willow waly!)
I may say, at once, I'm a man of propertee—
Hey willow waly O!
Money, I despise it,
But many people prize it,
Hey willow waly O!

Pa.
Gentle sir, although to marry I design—
(Hey, but he's hopeful—willow willow waly!)
As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.
Hey willow waly O!
To other maidens go you—
As yet I do not know you,
Hey willow waly O!

Gros.

Patience! Can it be that you don't recognize me?

Pa.

Recognize you? No, indeed I don't!

Gros.

Have fifteen years so greatly changed me?

Pa.

Fifteen years? What do you mean?

Gros.

Have you forgotten the friend of your youth, your
Archibald?—your little playfellow? Oh, Chronos, Chronos,
this is too bad of you!

Pa.

Archibald! Is it possible? Why, let me look! It
is! It is! It must be! Oh, how happy I am! I thought
we should never meet again! And how you've grown!

Gros.

Yes, Patience, I am much taller and much stouter
than I was.

Pa.

And how you've improved!

Gros.

Yes, Patience, I am very beautiful! (Sighs.)

Pa.

But surely that doesn't make you unhappy?

Gros.

Yes, Patience. Gifted as I am with a beauty which
probably has not its rival on earth—I am, nevertheless, utterly
and completely miserable.

Pa.

Oh, but why?

Gros.

My child-love for you has never faded. Conceive,
then, the horror of my situation when I tell you that it is my
hideous destiny to be madly loved by every woman I come
across!

Pa.

But why do you make yourself so picturesque? Why
not disguise yourself, disfigure yourself, anything to escape this
persecution?

Gros.

No, Patience, that may not be. These gifts—irksome
as they are—have been confided to me for the enjoyment and
delectation of my fellow-creatures. I am a trustee for Beauty,
and it is my duty to see that the conditions of my trust are
faithfully discharged.

Pa.

And you, too, are a Poet?

Gros.

Yes, I am the Apostle of Simplicity. I am called
“Archibald the All-right”—for I am infallible!

Pa.

And is it possible that you condescend to love such a
girl as I?

Gros.

Yes, Patience, is it not strange? I have loved you
with a Florentine fourteenth-century frenzy for full fifteen
years!

Pa.

Oh, marvellous! I have hitherto been deaf to the
voice of love—I seem now to know what love is! It has been
revealed to me—it is Archibald Grosvenor!

Gros.

Yes, Patience, it is! (Embrace.)

Pa.
(as in a trance).

We will never, never part!

Gros.

We will live and die together!

Pa.

I swear it!

Gros.

We both swear it! (Embrace.)

Pa.
(recoiling from him).

But—oh, horror!

Gros.

What's the matter?

Pa.

Why, you are perfection! A source of endless ecstacy
to all who know you!

Gros.

I know I am—well?

Pa.

Then, bless my heart, there can be nothing unselfish in
loving you!

Gros.

Merciful powers, I never thought of that!

Pa.

To monopolize those features on which all women love
to linger! It would be unpardonable!

Gros.

Why, so it would! Oh, fatal perfection, again you
interpose between me and my happiness!

Pa.

Oh, if you were but a thought less beautiful than you
are!

Gros.

Would that I were; but candour compels me to admit
that I'm not!

Pa.

Our duty is clear; we must part, and for ever!

Gros.

Oh, misery! And yet I cannot question the propriety
of your decision. Farewell, Patience!

Pa.

Farewell, Archibald! But stay!

Gros.

Yes, Patience?

Pa.

Although I may not love you—for you are perfect—
there is nothing to prevent your loving me. I am plain, homely,
unattractive!

Gros.

Why, that's true!

Pa.

The love of such a man as you for such a girl as I must
be unselfish!

Gros.

Unselfishness itself!

Deut.—Patience and Grosvenor.
Pa.
Though to marry you would very selfish be—

Gros.
Hey, but I'm doleful—willow willow waly!

Pa.
You may all the same continue loving me—

Gros.
Hey, but I'm doleful—willow willow waly!

Both.
All the world ignoring,
You/I'll go on adoring—
Hey willow waly O!

[At the end, exeunt despairingly, in opposite directions.
Enter Bunthorne, crowned with roses and hung about with garlands, and looking very miserable. He is led by Angela and Saphir (each of whom holds an end of the rose-garland by which he is bound), and accompanied by procession of Maidens. They are dancing classically, and playing on cymbals, double pipes, and other archaic instruments.
Chorus.
Let the merry cymbals sound,
Gaily pipe Pandæan pleasure,
With a Daphnephoric bound
Tread a gay but classic measure.
Every heart with hope is beating,
For at this exciting meeting
Fickle Fortune will decide
Who shall be our Bunthorne's bride!

Enter Dragoons, led by Colonel, Major, and Duke. They are surprised at proceedings.
Chorus of Dragoons.
Now tell us, we pray you,
Why thus you array you—
Oh, poet, how say you—
What is it you've done?

Duke.
Of rite sacrificial,
By sentence judicial,
This seems the initial,
Then why don't you run?

Col.
They cannot have led you,
To hang or behead you,
Nor may they all wed you,
Unfortunate one!

Chorus of Dragoons.
Then tell us, we pray you,
Why thus they array you—
Oh, poet, how say you—
What is it you've done?

Recitative.—Bunthorne.
Heart-broken at my Patience's barbarity,
By the advice of my solicitor (introducing his solicitor)
,
In aid—in aid of a deserving charity,
I've put myself up to be raffled for!

Maidens.
By the advice of his solicitor
He's put himself up to be raffled for!

Dragoons.
Oh, horror! urged by his solicitor,
He's put himself up to be raffled for!

Maidens.
Oh, Heaven's blessing on his solicitor!

Dragoons.
A hideous curse on his solicitor!

[The Solicitor, horrified at the Dragoons' curse, rushes off.
Col.
Stay, we implore you,
Before our hopes are blighted!
You see before you
The men to whom you're plighted!

Chorus of Dragoons.
Stay we implore you,
For we adore you;
To us you're plighted
To be united—
Stay we implore you!

Solo.—Duke.
[They all sigh.
[They all kneel.
[They all weep.
Ensemble.

Bunthorne
(who has been impatient during the appeal).
Come, walk up, and purchase with avidity,
Overcome your diffidence and natural timidity,
Tickets for the raffle should be purchased with avidity,
Put in half a guinea and a husband you may gain—
Such a judge of blue-and-white, and other kinds of pottery—
From early Oriental, down to modern terra-cotta-ry—
Put in half a guinea—you may draw him in a lottery—
Such an opportunity may not occur again.

Chorus.
Such a judge of blue-and-white, etc.

[Maidens crowd up to purchase tickets—during this Dragoons dance in single file round stage—to express their indifference.
Dragoons.
We've been thrown over, we're aware,
But we don't care—but we don't care!
There's fish in the sea, no doubt of it,
As good as ever came of it,
And some day we shall get our share,
So we don't care—so we don't care!

[During this the Girls have been buying tickets. At last, Jane presents herself. Bunthorne looks at her with aversion.
Recitative.
Bun.
And are you going, a ticket for to buy?

Jane
(surprised).
Most certainly I am; why should not I?

Bun.
(aside).
Oh, Fortune this is hard! (Aloud.)
Blindfold your eyes;
Two minutes will decide who wins the prize!

[Girls blindfold themselves.
Chorus of Maidens.
Oh, Fortune, to my aching heart be kind;
Like us, thou art blindfolded, but not blind! (Each uncovers one eye.)

Just raise your bandage, thus, that you may see,
And give the prize, and give the prize to me! (They cover their eyes again.)


Bun.
Come, Lady Jane, I pray you draw the first!

Jane
(joyfully).
He loves me best!

Bun.
(aside).
I want to know the worst!

[Jane draws a paper, and is about to open it, when Patience enters. Patience snatches paper from Jane and tears it up.
Pa.
Hold! Stay your hand!

All
(uncovering their eyes).
What means this interference?
Of this bold girl I pray you make a clearance!

Jane.
Away with you, and to your milk-pails go?

Bun.
(suddenly).
She wants a ticket! Take a dozen!!

Pa.
No!

Solo.—Patience, kneeling to Bunthorne.
If there be pardon in your breast
For a poor penitent,
Who with remorseful thought opprest,
Sincerely doth repent.
If you, with one so lowly, still
Desire to be allied,
Then you may take me, if you will,
For I will be your bride!

All.
Oh, shameless one!
Oh, boldfaced thing!
Away you run—
Go, take you wing,
You shameless one!
You boldfaced thing!

Bun.
How strong is love! For many and many a week,
She's loved me fondly and has feared to speak
But Nature, for restraint too mighty far,
Has burst the bonds of Art—and here we are!

Pa.
No, Mr. Bunthorne, no—you're wrong again,
Permit me—I'll endeavour to explain!

Song.—Patience.
True love must single-hearted be—

Bun.
Exactly so!

Pa.
From every selfish fancy free—

Bun.
Exactly so!

Pa.
No idle thought of gain or joy,
A maiden's fancy should employ—
True love must be without alloy.

All.
Exactly so!

Pa.
Imposture to contempt must lead—

Col.
Exactly so!

Pa.
Blind vanity's dissension's seed—

Maj.
Exactly so!

Pa.
It follows then, a maiden who
Devotes herself to loving you (indicating Bunthorne)
,
Is prompted by no selfish view!

All.
Exactly so!

Saph.
(taking Bunthorne aside).

Are you resolved to wed
this shameless one?

Ang.

Is there no chance for any other?

Bun.
(decisively).
None!

[Embraces Patience.
[Angela, Saphir, and Ella take Colonel, Duke, and Major down, while Girls gaze fondly at other Officers.
Sestette.
[Bun.]
I hear the soft note of the echoing voice
Of an old old love, long dead—
It whispers my sorrowing heart “rejoice”—
For the last sad tear is shed—
The pain that is all but a pleasure we'll change
For the pleasure that's all but pain,
And never, oh, never, this heart will range
From that old old love again!

[Girls embrace Officers.
Chorus.
Yes, the pain that is all, etc.

[Embrace.
[As the Dragoons and Girls are embracing, enter Grosvenor, reading. He takes no notice of them, but comes slowly down, still reading. The Girls are all strangely fascinated by him and gradually withdraw from Dragoons.
Ang.
But who is this, whose god-like grace
Proclaims he comes of noble race?
And who is this, whose manly face
Bears sorrow's interesting trace?

Ensemble.—Tutti.
Yes, who is this? etc.

Gros.
I am a broken-hearted troubadour,
Whose mind's æsthetic, and whose tastes are pure!

Ang.
Æsthetic! He is æsthetic!

Gros.
Yes, yes—I am æsthetic
And poetic!

All the Ladies.
Then, we love you!

[The Girls leave Dragoons and group, kneeling, around Grosvenor. Fury of Bunthorne, who recognizes a rival.
Dragoons.
They love him! Horror!

Bun. and Pa.
They love him! Horror!

Gros.
They love me! Horror! Horror! Horror!

Ensemble.—Tutti.
Girls.
Oh, list while we a love confess
That words imperfectly express,
Those shell-like ears, ah, do not close
To blighted love's distracting woes!
Nor be distressed, nor scandalized
If what we do is ill-advised,
Or we shall seek within the tomb
Relief from our appalling doom!

Grosvenor.
Again my cursed comeliness
Spreads hopeless anguish and distress,
Thine ears, O Fortune, did not close
To my intolerable woes.
Let me be hideous, undersized,
Contemned, degraded, loathed, despised.
Or bid me seek within the tomb
Relief from my detested doom!

Patience.
List, Reginald, while I confess
A love that's all unselfishness,
That it's unselfish, goodness knows,
You won't dispute it, I suppose.
For you are hideous—undersized,
And everything that I've despised,
And I shall love you, I presume,
Until I sink into the tomb!

Bun.
My jealousy I can't express,
Their love they openly confess,
His shell-like ear he does not close
To their recital of their woes—
I'm more than angry and surprised,
I'm pained, and shocked, and scandalized,
But he shall meet a hideous doom
Prepared for him by—I know whom!