SCENE I. Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Hannah, Sir John Hazelwood, Worshipton, and Amaryllis, discovered sitting by a table, with wine and glasses, &c. before them.

⁠But indeed, my dear Sir John, you ought to marry. ⁠Indeed, my dear Lady Goodbody, I can't see that I am in duty bound so to do. ⁠Ah, but you are tho'! It would have made your good worthy grandmother so happy to have seen children of yours growing up to preserve the honours of the family. ⁠It is too late now to think of pleasing my grandmother after she has been twenty years in her grave: your ladyship must offer some other argument to convince me. ​ ⁠You owe it to your country then: all families who have good fortunes and good blood in their veins, should be kept up for the sake of their country. Is not every body sorry when a house of this kind becomes extinct? ⁠If I thought my estates would cease to bear corn and hay upon them in possession of a different family, I should marry to-morrow for the good of the country most certainly. I should be very sorry to be sure to make every body sorry for my want of heirs: but I remember when my neighbour Squire Wheelbarrow lost his only son, there was as much merry-making, and as much ale drank at the very next fair, upon his own estate too, as if nobody had cared a rush about the matter. I believe you must produce some stronger reason still, my lady. ⁠Yes, do keep it up, madam! don't let him off so easily. ⁠For the sake of the ladies then, Sir John, you ought to be a bachelor no longer. ⁠Now your ladyship attacks him from a strong post. ​ ⁠Now, madam, you touch the finest chord of the soul's harmony. ⁠She does; I allow it. But I contend that I am of more service to the ladies in my present state than I could possibly be in any other. Have I not danced at our country balls with all the neglected damsels who could find no partners to lead them out for these ten years past? and do I not still serve as a forlorn hope to half the desponding maidens and unsettled widows of the west-riding of Yorkshire? ⁠Upon my honour, madam, he tells you serious truth as to the neglected damsels, for he has danced with them so often, that it would be no longer the fashion for any other kind of damsels to dance with him if he had not too good an estate to be rejected. ⁠Your services to the ladies are too general, Sir John; to make one deserving woman happy is the best way of shewing your respect for them. ⁠And what lady, my good madam, will expect happiness from an elderly rusticated bachelor? ​ ⁠No sensible woman dislikes an agreeable man because he may be past the heyday of his life. My niece here (pointing to Miss Martin) has often said to her giddy companions, that an agreeable man of forty is preferable to the frivolous young men of the world that one meets with every where now-a-days. ⁠You would oblige me very much, my dear madam, if you would speak your own sentiments, without doing me the honour to make me so much wiser than I pretend to be. ⁠If your ladyship pleases we shall drop this subject. I am obliged to you for your friendly advice, but it is not in my power to profit by it; for I cannot, for the mere love of being married, yoke myself to a bad wife; and I am so capricious and so strange with my old rooted habits, that I really don't deserve to have a good one. ⁠That is the very case with him, madam; he must have, forsooth, such a woman as the sun never beheld: a woman of wit who holds her tongue; a good housewife who teizes nobody with her ​economy; and a woman who knows the world, and yet prefers retirement in the country, and his honour's amiable conversation to every thing in it. May I be——if ever I require more of any woman than to be well dress'd and look pretty as long as I live. ⁠Do you tolerate oaths in your presence? ⁠I don't at least encourage them by my example. ⁠How should you, my good sir? you bury yourself so much in the country you scarcely know what oaths are in use. ⁠That is not my reason for abstaining from them, however: if ever I should betake myself to swearing, I shall give myself very little concern about the fashion of the oath; ods bodikins will do well enough for me, and lack-a-daysy for my wife, if I should ever be happy enough, following Lady Goodbody's advice, to have one. But Mr. Amaryllis are you silent all this while? it is surely your turn next to tell us what kind of a woman you prefer: some very refined being undoubtedly. ⁠Beauty, wit, fashion, and economy are prized by ​most men, Sir John, but let the maid whose tender sensibility, whole soft delicacy, whose sympathy of soul gently animates her countenance, be my portion, and every other thing I can dispense with. ⁠You three gentlemen, at least, are so far lucky in your tastes, that you are in no danger of ever becoming rivals. ⁠I must own, however, Sir John's choice appears to me to be the most reasonable, and not so difficult to be met with neither. My nieces spend many lonely months in the country with me, and Miss Martin prefers it, tho' she is naturally of a gay disposition; why should we not believe then that there are many young women in the world of the same character? ⁠For heaven's sake, ma'am, give this up! you'll put me beside myself, ⁠You're a fool, and don't know when one is serving you. ⁠There is nothing can be said in your praise, madam, that will not be readily credited; but to prefer country retirement, and a bachelor past the ​noon of his days, is a singular taste for a young and gay woman. ⁠Perhaps it is so: but unluckily it is one to which I make not the smallest pretensions. I love the amusements of town to a folly; retirement is irksome to me; and I hate a capricious old——(stopping short as if shocked at herself, with great embarrassment.) ⁠Miss Martin: how can you be so perverse! ⁠Pray, my dear madam, let us not fall out about this foolish jest which we have kept up too long. Here comes a strange original old fellow who is in the custom of amusing us a little after dinner, but he forgets that there are ladies with us at present. ⁠Pray let him come, we shall be glad to hear him talk a little. ⁠A good afternoon to your honour. ⁠How do you do, my honest friend David? ​ ⁠As well as a dry mouth and an empty head will allow a poor silly fellow like me to be. ⁠Ay, David, wise men always speak modestly of themselves, tho' they don't insist upon every body believing them. Here is something for thy dry mouth; you must drink a bumper to the ladies' healths. ⁠Such ladies as these deserve bumpers a-piece to their healths. ⁠So they do; and here's the first for you.

⁠(Filling him a glass.)

⁠My humble respects to your Ladyship.

⁠(To Lady Goodbody.)

⁠I'm proud of the respect of so wise a man, Mr. David. ⁠O Lord, madam, why should I be held in any account? What tho' a body may have a better understanding of things, and a better way of setting ​his words in order, as it were, than another; 'tis all but the gift of God, and why should a body be proud of it? ⁠But folks will be proud of any gift, Mr. David, unless they be endued, like you, with the rare gift of modesty also. ⁠Faith, young lady, you're in the rights of it there. Here's to your very good health: here's to your secret inclinations. ⁠I thank you; but you are waggish as well as wise. ⁠O yes, madam! nothing comes amiss to me. After I have been talking, mehap of the Pope, or the Emperor, or the land-tax, or the solemn league and covenant, I can just go and break my jests among the women as if I were no better than one of themselves. ⁠How wonderfully condescending to the poor silly women! ⁠O yes, madam, I have no pride about me; I can just talk like one of themselves. (Drinking to ​Hannah.) My service to you, young lady. (Raising his voice.) Yes, yes, commend me to the women: they don't envy any little wit that one may have. But conscience, I care for the face of no man! (Looking at Amaryllis.) Some of them, mehap, have read more books than me, and can tell you the

Latin for one word and the Greek for another, and the likes o' that; but for good deep sense, and a knack at a comparison, I'll defy the best of them all. Ods dickens! I could find ye out a similitude for the sun, moon, and stars, in the paring of a black pudding's end. (Laughing without, and Will's head seen peeping at the door which David had left a-jar.)

⁠What's that? ⁠By my troth, I've forgot my errand! I have brought the poor girl who sings so well to divert your honours, and she is waiting at the door with some ill-manner'd companions along with her. ⁠Pray bring her in, we shall be glad to have a song from her. ⁠Come in, hussey, and let those sneering varlets ​amuse themselves. Sing the ladies one of your new songs. ⁠I believe they would rather have one of your old ones. ⁠Will you please to have the Sailor's Courtship to the Tinker's Daughter; or, "My tatter'd Hose and clouted Shoon"? ⁠I rather think the clouted shoon will do best. ​ ⁠She has a charming voice, and sings with some skill. ⁠Who taught you these songs, Sally? ⁠My father, sir; he's a fid⁠ ⁠Fiddler an't genteel; say he's a musicianer. ⁠He's a musicianer, sir. ⁠Is the sheep-faced fool gone?

⁠(Exit after her in great indignation.

⁠Let us go and coax her to return.

⁠(Exit Worshipton and Amaryllis.

⁠She is very young, and we must excuse her. ​ ⁠There are more people here than her who ought to plead the same excuse. Miss Martin, you have behaved very strangely, and can only be pardoned on account of your youth. ⁠I have done so many foolish things for six-and-twenty years past, that you are really very good, my dear madam, to pardon me on that score. ⁠What do you mean? what do you mean, child, by calling yourself older than you are? ⁠I have been of age these five years, and most people, I believe, will call that six-and-twenty. ⁠Your servant, ladies, we shall meet again at the tea-table. ⁠(Exit. ⁠Very well, very well, Miss Martin! since you will be six-and-twenty, tho' you know well enough you want two months and a half of it, with all my heart. But allow me to tell you, a maiden of that age should look pretty sharply about her if she would not still remain a lonely maiden all her life. ​ ⁠I am sure it were better to remain a lonely maiden all my life than take up with such pitiful company as some of your good matrons do, and rather more respectable too. ⁠No, child; a married woman is always more respectable than a single one, let her be married to whom she will. ⁠Indeed! Can one give to another what he is not possess'd of himself? Can a woman receive any additional respectability because some drivelling insignificant man, whom all the world despises, has put a wedding-ring upon her finger!—ha! ha! ha! But I suppose a good settlement is the honour your Ladyship means. ⁠No, indeed: I say, every married woman is more respectable than a single one, independently of all settlements. What else do you think would have induced me, with the fortune I had, to marry Sir Benjamin Goodbody? for his person was disagreeable, and his best friends admitted he was no conjurer. Don't mistake me, however, I mean no disrepect to his memory. He was a very good man, and I have lamented him sincerely. And what else ​do you think would have induced my cousin Frances to give her hand to that poor puny creature, Mr. Perewinkle, but to place herself in this respectable state. ⁠Ha! ha! ha! I did not expert to hear such strong examples quoted from my own family. ⁠Don't make a jest of it: I speak seriously, and you ought to think seriously. ⁠I think very seriously that, if you would not pester me continually with attempts to make up a match for me with every man of fortune that falls in our way, I should be very happy, my dear aunt, to live still with you, and take care of your declining years, in return for the tenderness and attention you have bestowed on my youth. Why would you put me away from you? are you tired of my company? ⁠Oh, Mary! talk not of taking care of my declining years: I should be contented to be crippled or bed-ridden all my life, could I but see you happily and honourably married. ⁠My dear aunt! pardon my petulance and ​eagerness. I will strive to please you more: but do give up the present pursuit, I beseech you. ⁠No, no, my dear! I love you too well for that. But I am unfit to say any thing to you at present.

⁠(Exit.

⁠My dear, kind, perverse aunt! you will be the death of me. (To Hannah.) Come, my dear, we'll retire to our rooms too. What have you been thinking of all this time? ⁠I have just been wondering whether my grandmother was christened Hannah or Hanabella. ⁠What puts that into your head? ⁠Because Mr. Worshipton said at dinner, when my aunt call'd me Hannah, that she should have call'd me Hanabella, which is a prettier name. ⁠Mr. Worshipton has been amusing himself.—Oh heigh ho! I wish we were at home again, in our old mansion in the north. ​ ⁠My dear child! pardon the liberty: I still feel for you the affection of a dry nurse: what is the matter with you? ⁠Still the old grievance, my dear Hopkins; my aunt trying to make up a match for me. ⁠Ay, poor good lady: she can't leave that alone for the soul of her. She would make up matches at home for every country girl in the neighbourhood if she could. I even believe, if I had not been once married already, which she thinks sufficient for the credit of any woman, she would still be for trying to make up a match for my old crazy bones, God help me!—But don't let it vex you thus, my dear ma'am: I have brought you something that will please and divert you. ⁠What is that, Hopkins? ⁠A letter from my little boy whom my lady puts to school, written with his own hand, dear little ​fellow! and the first he ever wrote in his life. It begins "Dear Mother," and all as pretty as any other letter. ⁠I thank you, my good Hoppy! I shall indeed have a pleasure in reading it. Go with me to my room, and shew it me there: it does my ill-humour good to see thee so happy; I will strive to think less of my own concerns.⁠(Exeunt.

SCENE II. A small room leading to other rooms in the house: Jenkins discovered standing at one of the doors, behind which hang great coats, &c. beckoning to somebody who does not appear; presently enters Worshipton, stepping upon tiptoe.

⁠Thou hast some intelligence for me?

⁠(In a low voice.)

⁠Yes; the old lady and her woman are coming this way presently to go to Miss Martin's room, and the heiress will follow them as soon as she can find a glove that she is searching for. I heard this just now as I listen'd at her door; so conceal yourself here amongst these great coats for a few minutes, and you may way-lay her as she passes⁠(Speaking in a half whisper.) ​ ⁠Is my uncle still reading in the next chamber? ⁠I believe so. (Going to a door at the bottom of the stage, and listening.) He it just now rising to go away. (Worshipton shrinks back, and is going hastily out.) No, no! don't be afraid; he is gone out the other way to visit old Rycroft, I suppose. ⁠Good then: we shall have the coast clear: let us hide ourselves. Thou must remain with me, for I may have occasion for thee.

⁠(Hide themselves amongst the great coats.)

⁠Very true, Hopkins, and if my god-daughter turns out an industrious girl, I'll add something to what she saves myself, to get her a husband; for you know she is not very sightly. ⁠Ay, there is plenty of husbands to be had, my Lady, tho' a girl be ever so homely, if she have but money enough. (Exeunt Lady Goodbody and Hopkins.) ​ ⁠Ay, they are talking of their heiress now. They are devilishly suspicious of designs upon her, but we'll jockey them for all that. Ha! here comes the game. ⁠O la! are you there, Mr. Worshipton? I saw nobody here but the great coats hanging by the wall. ⁠You are not offended, I hope, that a great coat should be turned into something that can speak to you, and gaze upon you, and admire you, Miss Clodpate.⁠(Ogling her.) ⁠La, now! it is so droll! ⁠Droll enough, by my faith! ⁠I have been waiting here concealed a long time for this happiness; for your aunt is so jealous I can ​find no opportunity of speaking to you. She knows well enough it is impossible to behold such beauty and attraction without———pardon me: you know very well what I would say to you if I durst. ⁠La, now! how should I know. Do you mean that I am beautiful, and what d'ye call it? ⁠Indeed I do: your beauty must be admired, tho' your prudent aunt does all she can to conceal it. ⁠La, now! you say so because my hair has been allowed to grow so long, and aunt and every body says that my ears are the prettiest thing about me. But it an't aunt's fault: I shall have it cut when we go to town. (Putting her hair behind her ears awkwardly with her fingers, and beginning to look rather brisk). ⁠O, beautiful indeed! ⁠Ay, I thought the beauty lay hid under some snug covert or other: it was devilishly well conceal'd by my faith! ​ ⁠La, now! did you think they were as pretty as they are? ⁠I must confess I should have expected to find them somewhat of a longer shape. But conceal them for pity's sake, my charming Hannah: this is dangerous. ⁠Hanabella, you know. ⁠O yes, Hanabella I mean. It is dangerous to look upon so much beauty, when one at the same time thinks of the extraordinary accomplishments of your mind. ⁠La, now! who has told you that I got by heart six whole parts of the hundred and nineteenth psalm, word for word, in the space of two mornings only, and every body said it was very extraordinary? Somebody has told it you I know. ⁠No, nobody; I just found it out myself. ⁠La, now! that is so wonderful! Aunt herself ​said that my cousin Martin could not have done it so well. ⁠Your cousin Martin! would any one compare you together? Don't you know how much every body is delighted with you? ⁠La, no! nobody tells me any thing about it. ⁠Indeed! that is very extraordinary: but they have their own ends in that. Don't they watch you, and keep always somebody near you? ⁠To be sure my aunt often desires my cousin to take care of me when we go out. ⁠I thought so.—Ah! my charming Hanabella! ⁠Give a good heavy grunt, sir, and she'll ask what's the matter with you: mere sighing is no more to her than the blowing of your nose. ​ ⁠Oh! oh! ⁠La! what is the matter with you? have you the stomach ach? My aunt can cure that. ⁠Nay, my dear Hanabella, it is yourself that must cure me. I have got the heart-ach. It is your pity I must implore. (Kneeling and taking her hand.) ⁠O, sure now! to see you kneeling so—it is so droll! I don't know what to say, it is so droll. ⁠Say that you will be mine, and make me happy: there is nothing a lover can do, that I will not do to please you. ⁠Miss Languish's lover made songs upon her. ⁠I'll do so too, or any thing: but don't let your aunt know that I have spoken to you, she would be so angry. ⁠O no! she is very fond of people being married. ​ ⁠Yes, but she will be angry at us tho'; so don't tell her, nor Miss Martin, nor any body a word of the matter. Do promise this, my charming Hanabella! my life depends upon it. (Kneeling again, and taking her hand.) O don't pull away from me this fair hand! ⁠La! I'm sure I an't pulling it away. ⁠There's somebody coming. (Runs out and leaves Hannah strangely bewildered, and not knowing where to run.) ⁠O dear, dear! what shall I do? ⁠What is the matter, Miss Clodpate? My Lady sent me to see what is become of you: are you frightened for any thing, that you keep standing here in such a strange manner? ⁠O la, no! but I just thought somehow, that you would think there was somebody with me. (Hopkins looks about the room suspiciously.) O no: you ​need not look for any body: those are only great coats by the wall, you see; and Mr, Worshipton's an't there, you see; for his has got five capes to it, and the cloth is of a much lighter colour, and it has got more button-holes to it too than any body's else in the house. ⁠Mr. Worshipton's! was he here? ⁠La, no! an't I just telling you that he an't here. ⁠Well this is droll enough too—but no, no! it can't be any thing neither. (Aloud.) Your aunt is impatient for you, Miss Clodpate. ⁠O la! I'm going to her directly.

⁠(Exeunt Hannah and Hopkins.

⁠This is the price my master is willing to pay for his curricle and his horses. ⁠I think we have done pretty well, Jenkins, for the first onset. ​ ⁠Yes to be sure, sir; but—but— ⁠But what, Jenkins? ⁠Pardon my freedom, sir:—but don't you think she is rather too great a fool for—— ⁠Poh! poh! poh! she is all the better for that: it is a great advantage, and one that I am certain of. ⁠As to the certainty of it nobody will dispute that, I believe. ⁠Don't trouble thy head about it, if I'm satisfied. And remember the caution I gave you to say nothing, in the way of asking questions at the servants, to lead them to suspect what we are about. ⁠Don't be afraid of that, sir: I can't if I would; for the man-servant that attends them is a country booby, who has not been in the family a fortnight, and knows nothing at all about it; and my Lady's woman, with her staunch old-fashion'd notions, has ​taken such a dislike to me that I hate to have any thing to say to her. ⁠So much the better. Yes, yes! things will go swimmingly on: I shall soon jockey them all.

⁠(Exeunt.

SCENE III. A chamber all littered over with books, papers, old coats, shoes, &c. &c. Amaryllis discovered sitting by a table with a pen in his hand, and paper before him. After musing some time, he writes, and then blots out what he has written.

⁠This won't do: it does not sound well. What a teasing thing it is, when one has got a beautiful line, to be stopp'd thus for want of a good rhyme to couple with it! (repeating with great emphasis and gesticulation)

No, climb does not please me: it is too heavy a motion for thought. (Musing and rubbing his forehead.)

No, that won't do neither. (Musing again and biting his nails.) Pest take it! if I should bite my ​fingers to the quick it won't come to me. (A gentle knock at the door.) Who's there? (in an angry voice.)

⁠'Tis I, sir: does your sire want coals? ⁠O, it is you, Dolly. Come in and see, my good girl. (Enter Dolly, and pretends to be busy in putting the room in order, whilst Amaryllis takes his pen and begins several times to write, but as often lays it down again, looking at the same time over his shoulder at her.) Plague take it! she puts it all out of my head. (Leans his arm on the table for some time, still looking frequently about to her.) Faith, I believe she has a sneaking kindness for me, she finds always so many little things to do in my room. She's a good, rosy, tight girl, on my soul! (Aside.) No, my pretty Dolly, that book is too heavy for yon: I'll put it in its place. (Getting up with great animation, and running to her.) ⁠O no, sir! I'll do it very well myself. I just thought, as how your room would be in confusion, and so—— ⁠And so you came to put my head into confusion too, you little baggage. ​ ⁠O sure! I hope not, sir. ⁠You're a sly gipsy, Dolly. But you think of me sometimes then, eh? (Pinching her ear and patting her cheek.) ⁠Amaryllis! Amaryllis! are you at home, Amaryllis? ⁠I heard you were at home, so I made bold to enter. What, writing so composedly after all this devil of a noise? ⁠Yes, I believe the cat has been playing her gambols amongst my books. ⁠It may have been the cat, to be sure, for those creatures have witchcraft about them, and can do many wonderful things o' winter nights, as ​my old nurse used to tell me; but if you had told me it was half a dozen of dogs that made such a noise, I should scarcely have believed you. Cats too can put on what forms they please, I've been told; and tho' they generally assume that of an old woman, your's has been more civil to you, I believe, in taking the more agreeable form of a young one. I caught a glimpse of her, Amaryllis, as she fled into the other chamber. ⁠Poh! Dolly has been putting my books in order; is she gone? (Pretending to look round for her.) ⁠Well, well, never mind it! I came on a little business to you, else I should have been sorry to disturb you; for I know well enough you are always employed about some sublime thing or other. ⁠You are too flattering.—You come upon business? ⁠Yes, Amaryllis, and you are so good-natured, that I shan't make any preamble about it. I want to please a lady, or make a lady believe I am pleased with her, which is the same thing, you know; and I want to borrow one of your poems that I may present it to her as written in praise of ​herself. However, she is not very refined in her taste, any common-place thing will do. ⁠I am infinitely flatter'd, Mr. Worshipton, that you should apply to me for a common-place thing. Since this is the style of poetry that suits you at present, I can't help thinking you might have succeeded pretty well in writing it yourself. ⁠Poh, now! you don't take my meaning. I meant any little piece that has cost you little time or study, will do very well for my purpose: I should be very sorry to take one of your good ones. ⁠Sir, I have bestowed some time and study upon all my pieces, and should be rather unwilling to think I had any other to offer you. ⁠How perverse you are in misunderstanding me! The best poet that ever lived has a best and a worst poem, and I only make the humble request to have one of your least sublime ones. Do, my dear friend, look thro' your budget. Many of your works, I know, are master-pieces, and I have had a great desire for a long time to hear you read some of them, but was unwilling to disturb you of an evening. ​ ⁠I believe I must find something for you. Will you have a love-song or a sonnet? ⁠Any of them will do: she does not know the one from the other, ⁠Here are verses addressed to Delia playing on the lute. ⁠This will do very well; for tho' I don't believe she plays upon the lute, it will be civil to suppose that she does, till we really know the contrary. ⁠You speak lightly of the lady, Worshipton, for a lover. ⁠I am not so refined in my ideas of these matters as you are, Amaryllis. I am a man of the world, and that character can't be supported long on a slender fortune: the lady is very rich.—But mum: not a word of this to any one. ⁠You may depend upon me. But you said you should like to hear me read some of my poems. I ​am not very busy at present; I will indulge you with pleasure. ⁠You are extremely obliging.—For a man pretty well received by women of the first circles, as I believe without vanity I may say of myself, it would be a silly trick to marry at all, did not my circumstances compel me to it; but I shall make such a choice of a wife as shall make me pass as much as possible for a single man still. ⁠Very well!—I have a poem here which I think you will be pleased with. ⁠You are very good indeed.—But you see how I am circumstanced: I must have fortune.—How foolish it was in the Marchioness of Edgemore to think I was going to elope with Lady Susan! I never paid more than common attention to her in my life. It is impossible for me to marry without fortune. ⁠Well that is all very true.—But here is a pastoral which you will not, I hope, find unworthy your attention, if you will have the goodness to give it me. ​ ⁠You are infinitely obliging; but I am extremely sorry my time will not at present allow me so great a pleasure. ⁠Then I'll read you this elegy, which is shorter. ⁠I'm really obliged to you, but—— ⁠Or perhaps you would like to hear my grand ode, which is in the next room. (Runs out to fetch it.) ⁠How that man pesters one with his damned vanity. Shall I make my escape while he is gone? No, no! that would be too rude: I'll try another way of getting off.—Worshipton! Worshipton!

⁠(Calling out with a feigned voice.)

⁠Now, Worshipton, I'll shew you what I believe, without vanity, I may call hitting off the figurative and sublime style in poetry, pretty well. ⁠I beg pardon: I am extremely mortified, but I cannot possibly stay to hear it now, for Sir John ​waits without calling for me, and I must positively go to him. Did you not hear him call very loud? ⁠O, if Sir John is without we can ask him in, and he shall hear it too.⁠(Going towards the door.) ⁠No, no, my good friend, not now, if you please: it is impossible: we shall hear you another time. ⁠I shall be at home all the evening; shall I expect you half an hour hence? ⁠No, not quite so soon, I thank you; we shall be engaged. But we shall have great pleasure very soon—good bye to you.
⁠(Hurrying away.) ⁠In an hour then, perhaps, I may expect you: I shall be at leisure all the evening. ⁠Really you are most exceedingly obliging, but I am afraid it will not be in our power. Excuse my haste, I am very much disappointed.⁠ (Going hastily.) ⁠Nay, surely after supper you can contrive to come to me. ​ ⁠O, no, no! one has enough to do then to digest the horrible eating of this diabolical inn, without surfeiting one's self—I beg pardon! without giving one's self the pleasure, I meant to say, of——excuse me! excuse me! I must not keep him waiting any longer; you heard how loud he call'd me; I am extremely disappointed indeed.⁠(Exit, breaking from him in great haste. ⁠Well, let him go, pitiful fellow! he is so taken up with himself and his own little paltry vanity, he has neither capacity nor taste to relish high poetry.

⁠(Exit very majestically.