ACT II.--SCENE I.

A public-house, "Black Horse," in the Borough. A tap-room. _Mags_ and _Poppleton_ discovered drinking "heavy wet." _Mags_ rather fresh, and _Poppleton_ evidently the worse of liquor. _Mags_, after a long pull, deposits the pot upon the table.

_Pop._--Now for your news, Mags.

_Mags._ I told you, worthy Pop, That Stubs and Smith put keepers on the shop.

_Pop._--And how's our missus?

_Mags._ Why, hearty, when last seen With a Life-Guardsman, crossing Turnham-green.

_Pop._--And honest Snags?

_Mags (with emotion)._ Ah! would that epithet were true, Or I could keep the sad details from you! Snags is not _honest_!

(_Poppleton buttons his coat, and puts himself into a boxing attitude._)

He has robb'd the till, And lost the money, betting at a mill!

(_Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily._)

_Mr. C._--What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see Above all others. Curse my pedigree!

AIR--_Mr. Clipclose._--("I've been roaming.")

I've been nabb'd, sirs,--I've been nabb'd, sirs,-- And bundled off direct to jail, By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs, And now I'm out upon stag-bail.

(_Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand._)

_Mr. C._--Is this good stout?

_Mags (feelingly)._ My honest master, quaff! You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.

AIR--_Poppleton._--("Here we go up, up, up.")

Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup! Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy; There's nothing like keeping steam up, When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.

(_Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags._)

_Mr. C._--How's all at home,--I mean on Ludgate-hill,-- And have you heard the winner of the mill?

_Mags (with considerable hesitation)._--We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on. Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton; The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife, I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;" On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren, And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.

(_Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the chimney-piece._)

_Mr. C._--My wife levanted, and the shop done up! Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup. Othello like, Bob's occupation's done; For I back'd Owen freely two to one. Like Antony at Actium, this fell day Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay. Would I had nerve to take myself away!

_Pop._ (_aside._)--I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid, He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.

(_Enter Pot-boy._)

_Pot-boy._--Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?

_Mr. C._--I am that wretched man! (_Slaps his forehead._)

_Pot-boy._ Who pays the beer?

_Pop._--I.

_Pot-boy._--Here's a note. (_To Mr. C._) Lord, but the man looks queer!

(_Mr. Clipclose reads it; jumps up, and whistles "Bobbing Joan."_)

QUARTETTO.

_Mags._

Master, are you mad?

_Mr. C._

No; but I'm distracted.

_Pot-boy._

Times are wery bad,

_Pop._

And I in grief abstracted.

_Mags._

Odds! he'll take his life!

_Mr. C._ (_kissing the billet._)

Sweet note! thou'rt balm and manna!

_Mags to Pop._ (_who is reading it over Mr. C.'s shoulder._) Is it from his wife?

_Pop._ (_slaps his thigh._)

No! from Miss Juliana!"

_Clipclose_, when he reads it, rushes out; _Mags_ after him. _Poppleton_ attempts to follow, but is detained by pot-boy. He forks out tanner, and disappears. SOLO--_Apollonicon._ Hurried music descriptive of three cabs: _Clipclose_ in 793, at a rapid pace; _Mags_, 1659; _Poppleton_ 1847, pursuing. Scene closes.