« PreviousContinue »
I been born in the days of Arcadia, with my present propensity, instead of being a fine lady, as you call me, I should certainly have kept a flock of sheep.
Pat. Well, madam, you have the sages, poets, and philosophers, of all ages, to countenance your way of thinking. 252
The. And you, my little philosophical friend, don't you think me in the right too?
Pat. Yes, indeed, madam, perfectly.
Trust me, would you taste true pleasure,
Blest, who, no false glare requiring, 260
Theodosia, Mervin, Fanny.
Mer. Yonder she is seated; and, to my wish, most fortunately alone. Accost her as I desired. The. Heigh!
Fan. Heaven bless you, my sweet lady—bless your honour's beautiful visage, and send you a good husband, and a great many of them.
The. A very comfortable wish upon my word: who are you, child? E71 Fan. A poor gipsey, an' please you, that goes about begging from charitable gentlemen and ladies—If you have ere a coal or a bit of whiting in your pocket, I'll write you the first letter of your sweetheart's name; how many husbands you will have; and how many children, my lady: or, if you'll let me look at your line of life, I'll tell you whether it will be long or short, happy or miserable.
The. Oh! as for that, I know it already—you cannot tell me any good fortune, and therefore I'll hear none. Go about your business. 282 Mer. Stay, madam, stay, [Pretending to lift a paper from the ground."] you have dropt something—Fan, call the young gentlewoman back.
Fan. Lady, you have lost
The. Pho, pho, I have lost nothing. Mer. Yes, that paper, lady; you dropt it as you got up from the chair.—Fan, give it to her honour. 289 The. A letter with my address! [Tahes the paper and reads.] " Dear Theodosia! Though the sight of me "was so disagreeable to you, that you charged me "never to approach you more, I hope my hand-wri"ting can have nothing to frighten or disgust you. I ** am not far off'; and the person who delivers you "this, can give you intelligence." Come hither, child: do you know any thing of the gentleman that w rote this?
Fan. My lady 299
The. Make haste run this moment, bring me to him, bring him to me; say I wait with impatience; tell him I will go, fly any where
Mer. My life, my charmer!
The. Oh, Heavens! Mr. Mervin!
Theodosia, Mervin, Sir Harry, Lady SycaMore, Fanny, Gipsies.
L. Syc. Sir Harry, don't walk so fast, we are not running for a wager.
S. Har. Hough, hough, hough.
L. Syc. Hey day, you have got a cough; I shall have you laid upon my hands presently. 309
S. Har. No, no, my lady, it's only the old affair.
L. Syc. Come here, and let me tye this handkerchief about your neck; you have put yourself into a muck sweat already. [Ties a handhercheif about his nech.] Have you taken your Bardana this morning? I warrant you not now, though you have been complaining of twitches two or three times; and you know the gouty season is coming on. Why will you be so neglectful of your health, Sir Harry? I protest I am forced to watch you like an infant. 319
S. Har. My lovey takes care of me, and I am ob liged to her.
L. Syc. Well, but you ought to mind me then, since
you are satisfied I never speak but for your good
I thought, Miss Sycamore, you were to have followed your papa and me into the garden.—How far did you go with that wench?
The. They are gipsies, madam, they say. Indeed I don't know what they are.
L. Syc. I wish miss, you would learn to give a rational answer. 330
5. Har. Eh! what's that? gipsies! Have we gipsies here! Vagrants, that pretend to a knowledge of future events; diviners, fortune-tellers f
Fan. Yes, your worship, we'll tell your fortune, or her ladyship's, for a crum of bread, or a little broken victuals: what you throw to your dogs, an please yen.
S. Har. Broken victuals, hussey! How do you think we should have broken victuals ?—If we are at home, indeed, perhaps you might get some such thing from the cook: but here we are only on a visit to a friend's house, and have nothing to do with the kitchen at all. 34 2
L. Syc. And do you think, Sir Harry, it is necessary to give the creature an account.
S. Har. No, love, no; but what can you say to
obstinate people? Get you gone, bold face.—I
once knew a merchant's wife in the city, my lady, who had her fortune told by some of those gipsies. They said she should die at such a time; and I warF
rant, as sure as the day came, the poor gentlewoman
a&ually died with the conceit. Come, Dossy,
your mama and I are going to take a walk. My
lady, will you have hold of my arm? 353
L. Syc. No, Sir Harry, I choose to go by myself.
Mer. Now, love, assist me—[Turning to the gipsies.]
Follow and take all your cues from me Nay, but
good lady and gentleman, you won't go without remembering the poor gipsies.
S. Har. Hey! here is all the gang after us.
Gip. Pray, your noble honour. 360
L. Syc. Come back into the garden; we shall be covered with vermin.
Gip. Out of the bowels of your commiseration.
L. Syc. They press upon us more and more; yet that girl has no mind to leave them: I shall swoon away.
S. Har. Don't be frighten'd, my lady; let me advance.
You vile pach of vagabonds, what do you mean t
I'll maul you rascallions, 370
If one of you come within reach of my cane.
Such cursed assurance,