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Sparr. With perfect wonder! Do you know, friend Fidget, it may be fancy, perhaps; for we lovers are apt to be whimsical; but your daughter appeared to me higher on one side than the other,
Just. F. What ?
Sparr. I thought, when she left me, she waddled away like a lame duck out of the alley.
Just. F. A lame duck! Why, then, you're a goose for thinking so. Nature never form’d a more exact symmetry. She is, as my wife used to say, a perfect model of the Venus - what dy’e call her there.
Sparr. Why, she does in some respects resemble a statue.
Just. F. A statue ! Oh, you think the girl hasn't life enough?
Sparr. Just so. What an impudent rascal it is !
Just. F. A little more animation, you think, would become her?
Sparr. I do, upon my soul.
Just. F. Maiden coyness - mere maiden coyness. Marry her, only marry her, and you'll find her flesh and blood all over, I warrant.
Sparr. Indeed! What, sound wind and limb, eh ?
Just. F. Perfectly.
Sparr. I think there's here and there a limb that would require a touch of the Promethean torch. But to be serious, for I find you won't take a hint- what mark of stupidity do you see about me, to lead you to suppose I shall be bamboozled into this marriage ?
Just. F. Bamboozled ! what d'ye mean?
Sparr. Not to marry a woman who climbs pear trees.
Just. F. Pear trees! How — when - where ?
Sparr. Why, then, as there's a private reason why I can't marry your daughter, take my advice, and make the best of the matter, by giving her to the corkcutter.
Just. F. The cork-cutter! Mercy on me, what can he mean?
AIR 8th. Sparr. I could marry a witch, if, like Midas of old, The first time I touch'd her, she'd turn into gold; For tho’she were homely, 'tis odds but she'd be To Venus as like, as Adonis to me.
Whatever her age, for content there is scope:
III. Tho' the lily ne'er bloom’d on her cheek, and the rose, Finds its only delight on the tip of her nose; Yet I'd wed the dear creature, and pocket her pelf, But a leg made of cork — is the devil itself. [Exit.
Just. F. (solus) Climbing pear trees ! leg made of cork !- mad, certainly mad; mad as a march hare, or a poet in love.
Enter Constant from the Closet. Cons. Here's a discovery! she never even hinted at this accident in any of her letters to me; but no matter, her treachery is evident, and it is my duty to forget her.
Come, pride bring me back my soft hours of rest,
Scene, the Village.
And milkmaids fill their pails,
The breath of morn exhales: .
The rosy sunbeams play,
Which gem the hawthorn spray :
Th' impatient pointers we unbind,
With fearful step and slow,
His speed at once command.
On whirring wings
The covey springs,
And one decreed,
By fate to breed,
Enter GRACE. Gra. Oh, sir, is it you ? I've been looking for you all over the village.
Carel. Indeed – is there any thing I can do for you? Gra. Yes sir, there is a business, which if I could take so great a liberty with a stranger, - Carel. Nay then, speak boldly; for the greatest liberty you can take with me, is to make me a stranger.